FACTORIES 


POEMS 
By 

MARGARET    WIDDEMER 

Author    of    "A     Rose-Garden    Husband"    "The 
Wishing- Ring  Man"  etc. 


THIRST  published  as  "Factories,  and  Other 
Poems"  and  out  of  print  for  some  time,  this 
book  has  been  reset  for  this  new  edition.  The 
author  has  embraced  the  opportunity  to  make  some 
changes  in  the  original  text  and  to  add  a  number 
of  new  poems. 


FACTORIES 


POEMS 


BY 


MARGARET  WIDDEMER 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,,  1915,  BY 
THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTOW  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1917, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

Published  August,  1917 


THE   QUINN    A    BODEN    CO.    PRESS 
RAHWAY,   N.   J. 


To 
MY  BROTHER,  KENNETH 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Factories               ; '.  *     .;.;•  9 

POEMS  OF  NOW 

A  MESSAGE  FROM  ITALY       .       ...       .  13 

A  NEW  SPINNING  SONG 14 

AN  OLD  WIFE'S  SONG 16 

THE  MODERN  WOMAN  TO  HER  LOVER       .       .  19 

THE  BEGGARS           20 

THE  NET           22 

TERESINA'S  FACE 23 

A  CAFE  SINGER 24 

THE  GUIDES 25 

A  POOR  CHILD 27 

A  CHRISTMAS  DOLL 28 

THE  OLD  TOWN -3° 

THE  TWISTED  SOULS 32 

PRISON-PEOPLE 34 

A  MOTHER  TO  THE  WAR-MAKERS       ...  36 

WAR-MARCH             37 

AN  OLD  PORTRAIT 41 

THE  OLD  SUFFRAGIST 43 

THE  HOUSEKEEPER 44 

THE  WOMEN'S  LITANY 46 

A  MARCHING  SONG  OF  WOMEN     ....  48 


6  Contents 

PAGE 

THE  SETTLEMENT  WORKER    .       .       .       .       .      50 

THE  WAR-GOD         .       .       .       .       .       .       .52 

GOD  AND  THE  STRONG  ONES      ....      54 

THE  WANDERING  SINGER 

THE  LITTLE  COMFORTERS -59 

THE  CAPTIVE  .60 

A  COUNTRY  CAROL         ."•;.. 62 

THE  SINGING  LEAVES     ......  64 

THE  BALLAD  OF  GOD'S  TOWN     .       .       .       .  65 

AFTER  SUNSET 67 

ASLEEP  IN  SPRING 68 

A  MERRY  HEART 69 

SEA-LOVERS 70 

THE  Two  DYINGS 71 

THE  JOYOUS  DREAM 72 

UPLIFT 73 

YOUTH  LEARNS 

KNOWLEDGE 77 

THE  PROMISERS        .       .       .       .       .       .       .78 

AN  OLD  WOMAN     .       .       .       .       „      '.       -79 

YOUTH 80 

THE  SINGER 81 

THE  DEAD  FRIEND 82 

SEARCH       .........       83 

MANET! 85 

THE  DIVINE  LIE  .      86 


Contents  7 

PAGE 

THE  LAST  KNIGHT 88 

THE  FOLLOWER 90 

THE  CLOAK  OF  DREAMS 92 

GIFTS 93 

GREEK  FOLK  SONGS 

THE  NAKED  FEET 97 

IN  THE  DARK 98 

MOON  WITH  EYES  OF  BLUE 99 

SONG:  SHADOW  OF  THE  WOODLAND    .       .       .  100 

RAIN  IN   THE  MORNING 102 

NOT  UNTO  THE  FOREST 103 

CRADLE  SONG 105 

A  CYPRIAN  WOMAN 106 

LOVE  SONGS 

CHANGED           109 

AN  ENDING no 

THOUGHT  OF  You in 

IF  You  SHOULD  TIRE  OF  LOVING  ME      .       .  112 

SIEGE 113 

A  GIRL'S  LOVE  SONG 114 

TRIUMPH           115 

I  CAN  Go  TO  LOVE  AGAIN 116 

AT  THE  GAME'S  END 117 

THE  ETERNAL  BURIAL 118 

SONG .       .119 

SONG  i 20 


8  Contents 

PAGE 

THE  GIFT 121 

THE  PERFECT  LOVER .122 

CARNATIONS 124 

THE  BORDER  COUNTRY 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GHOSTS 129 

THE  OLD  SOUL       .......  131 

THE  LOST  FRIEND 133 

THE  WONDERFUL  COUNTRY 134 

RECOMPENSE 137 

THE  ESTRAY 139 

THERE  is  NOTHING  DEAD 141 

THE  FORGOTTEN  SOUL 143 

THE  FORGETFUL   PEOPLE    ^.       .       .       .       .144 

JEANNE  D'ARC  AT  RHEIMS  .       .       .       .       .  146 

WIND-LITANY           151 

THE  PASSING      .     .       .     •  .       .       .       .       .  153 


THE  FACTORIES 

I  HAVE  shut  my  little  sister  in  from  life  and  light 
(For  a  rose,  for  a  ribbon,  for  a  wreath  across  my 

hair), 

I  have  made  her  restless  feet  still  until  the  night, 
Locked  from  sweets  of  summer  and  from  wild 

spring  air; 

I  who  ranged  the  meadowlands,  free  from  sun  to  sun, 
Free  to  sing  and  pull  the  buds  and  watch  the  far 

wings  fly, 

I  have  bound  my  sister  till  her  playing-time  was  done — 
Oh,  my  little  sister,  was  it  If    Was  it  If 

I  have  robbed  my  sister  of  her  day  of  maidenhood 
(For  a  robe,  for  a  feather,  for  a  trinket's  restless 

spark), 
Shut  from  Love  till  dusk  shall  fall,  how  shall  she  know 

good, 

How  shall  she  go  scatheless  through  the  sin-lit  dark? 
I  who  could  be  innocent,  I  who  could  be  gay, 

I  who  could  have  love  and  mirth  before  the  light 

went  by, 

I  have  put  my  sister  in  her  mating-time  away — 
Sister,  my  young  sister,  was  it  If    Was  it  If 

I  have  robbed  my  sister  of  the  lips  against  her  breast, 
(For  a  coin,  for  the  weaving  of  my  children's  lace 
and  lawn), 

9 


io  The  Factories 

Feet  that  pace  beside  the  loom,  hands  that  cannot 

rest — 
How  can  she  know  motherhood,  whose  strength  is 

gone? 

I  who  took  no  heed  of  her,  starved  and  labor-worn, 
I,  against  whose  placid  heart  my  sleepy  gold-heads 

lie, 

^Round  my  path  they  cry  to  me,  little  souls  unborn — 
God  of  Life!    Creator!    It  was  I!    It  was  I! 


POEMS    OF    NOW 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  ITALY 

THERE  was  a  white  bird  lighted  on  the  sill 

That  sang  of  Italy. 
All  day  the  great  bands  whirled  along  the  mill 

And  pale  girls  languidly 
Wound  the  long  skeins  that  do  not  ever  end, 

And  nothing  saw  or  heard ; 
Only  one  heart  flew  back  to  sun  and  friend 

And  freedom  with  the  bird. 

Doves  by  the  broken  fountain  in  the  square 

Cooed  at  her  small  brown  feet; 
There  was  wide  sky  and  love  and  laughter  there, 

And  the  soft  wind  was  sweet; 
The  long  days  ran,  like  little  children,  free 

In  that  blue,  sunny  air, 
Life  did  not  labor  hushed  and  measuredly, 

There  was  not  gold  or  care. 

The  close  heat  pulsed,  unsweetened  by  the  sun, 

And  the  blind  walls  again 
Penned  her  to  tasks  unending,  unbegun, 

Monotony  and  pain; 
But  all  that  day  her  feet  paced  with  gay  will, 

Her  child-heart  circled  free. 
There  was  a  white  dove  lighted  on  the  sill 

That  cooed  of  Italy. 
13 


A  NEW  SPINNING  SONG 

THE  fillet  needs  another  pearl,  the  hand  another  ring, 

(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  dusk  in  the  red  young  sun!) 
What  are  little  hearts  that  beat  and  little  lips  that  sing  ? 

(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  whirl  till  our  whim  is  won!) 
Flesh  and  blood  and  dusky  eyes,  childish  heart  and 

gay, 
These  shall  turn  our  wheels  for  us  and  wither  through 

the  day — 
(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  dusk  in  the  red  young  sun!) 

The  pinnace  needs  a  swifter  sail,  the  fortress  needs  a 

tower, 

(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  bleak  in  the  sultry  noon!) 
What  if  all  the  woods  are  green  and  all  the  fields  in 

flower  ? 

(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  stilling  the  youth-time  soon!) 
Children's  strength  and  children's  lives  are  fuel  that 

we  burn, 
More  shall  come  when  these  are  gone  to  make  our 

great  wheels  turn — 

(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  bleak  in  the  sultry  noon!) 
14 


A  New  Spinning  Song  15 

Leisure-time  and  mirth  are  dear,  flesh  and  blood  are 

cheap, 

(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  black  in  the  hopeless  night!) 
What  if  children  break  or  die  the  morns  we  smile  in 

sleep  ? 

(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  over  the  hearts  once  light!) 
Spinning  flesh  to  gold  for  us,  spinning  life  for  bread, 
Spinning  hope  and  strength  and  breath  along  the  end- 
less thread — 
(Turn,  wheels,  turn,  black  in  the  hopeless  night!) 


AN  OLD  WIFE'S  SONG 

WHEN  I  was  young  and  my  days  were  long 

I  heard  my  grandmother's  spinning-song: 

She  sang  and  spun  while  I  sat  by  her  knee, 

And  this  was  the  song  my  granny  sang  me : 

"  The  man  shall  take  and  the  woman  give 

All  the  days  that  they  both  must  live, 

Woman  shall  give  and  the  man  shall  take 

Till  the  sky  fall  through  and  the  wide  earth  break!" 

When  I  was  young  and  the  world  was  new 
I  loved  a  lad  and  he  loved  me  true ; 
He  could  have  won  me  easy  as  could  be, 
But  oh,  he  was  still  with  the  fear  of  me; 
I  longed  to  speak  and  to  make  him  glad, 
But  I  was  a  lass  and  he  was  a  lad, 
I  could  not  speak  though  no  word  be  spoken, 
And  I  held  my  tongue  till  my  heart  was  broken ; 
For  woman  gives  and  the  man  must  take 
Though  her  life  may  spoil  and  her  heart  may  break, 
For  man  must  take  and  the  woman  give, 
Though  it  spoils  all  the  days  that  they  both  have  to 
live ! 

When  I  was  grown  and  was  full  wife-old 
A  man  there  came  and  his  love  was  bold; 
I  wished  him  neither  nigh  nor  yet  away, 
I  had  no  will  to  tell  him  yea  nor  nay — 

16 


An  Old  Wife's  Song  17 

But  a  lass  must  wed  ere  her  fading,  and  in  sooth 

All  a  woman's  gold  is  her  face  and  her  youth, 

So  I  gave  him  my  hand,  though  'twas  naught  to  me, 

For  what  but  a  wife  can  a  poor  lass  be? 

For  man  will  take  and  the  woman  give 

What  is  there  else  when  a  woman  has  to  live? 

For  woman  must  give  if  the  man  will  take 

And  buy  with  her  youth  till  her  youth  shall  break! 

When  my  man  was  wed  and  his  love  was  through 

I  bore  him  a  son,  as  I  was  glad  to  do, 

When  he  was  through  with  courting  and  calling  me 

his  dear 

I  bore  him  a  man-child  for  each  wedded  year. 
I  gave  them  my  looks  and  my  youth  and  my  tears, 
I  gave  them  the  strength  of  all  my  years, 
So  my  life  was  broken  when  they  went  from  me, 
Yet  what  beside  a  mother  may  a  good  wife  be? 
For  woman  gives  and  the  man  will  take 
And  go  his  ways  though  her  heart  may  break — 
For  man  shall  take  and  the  woman  give 
All  through  the  years  she  is  bound  to  live! 

And  now  I'm  old  and  none  pays  me  heed, 

For  I've  no  gift  that  a  man  may  need, 

And  when  I  was  young  is  a  long  time  ago, 

For  this  is  never  my  world  I  used  to  know ! 

For  down  through  the  land  a  maid  may  pass 

As  if  she  were  a  lad  and  not  a  lady-lass, 

She  gives  and  she  takes,  and  stands  or  may  fall 

As  if  she  were  a  strong  man  and  not  a  maid  at  all! 


1 8  An  Old  Wife>s  Son# 

And  she  takes  what  she'd  take,  and  she  gives  what 

she'd  give, 

For  this  is  a  world  where  a  lass  must  live — 
And  can  it  be  that  the  world's  made  new 
And  the  sky  is  fallen  and  the  world's  broke  through? 


THE  MODERN  WOMAN  TO  HER  LOVER 

I  SHALL  not  lie  to  you  any  more, 
Flatter  or  fawn  to  attain  my  end — 

I  am  what  never  has  been  before, 
Woman — and  Friend. 

I  shall  be  strong  as  a  man  is  strong, 

I  shall  be  fair  as  a  man  is  fair, 
Hand  in  locked  hand  we  shall  pass  along 

To  a  purer  air: 

I  shall  not  drag  at  your  bridle-rein, 
Knee  pressed  to  knee  shall  we  ride  the  hill ; 

I  shall  not  lie  to  you  ever  again — 
Will  you  love  me  stillf 


THE  BEGGARS 

THE  little,  pitiful,  worn,  laughing  faces 
Begging  of  Life  for  Joy! 

I  saw  the  little  daughters  of  the  poor, 

Tense  from  the  long  day's  working,  strident,  gay, 

Hurrying  to  the  picture-place.     There  curled 

A  hideous  flushed  beggar  at  the  door, 

Trading  upon  his  horror,  eyeless,  maimed, 

Complacent  in  his  profitable  mask. 

They  mocked  his  horror,  but  they  gave  to  him 

From  the  brief  wealth  of  pay-night,  and  went  in 

To  the  cheap  laughter  and  the  tawdry  thought 

Thrown  on  the  screen ;  in  to  the  seeking  hand 

Covered  by  darkness,  to  the  luring  voice 

Of  Horror,  boy-masked,  whispering  of  rings, 

Of  silks,  of  feathers,  bought — so  cheap! — With  just 

Their  slender  starved  child-bodies,  palpitant 

For  Beauty,  Laughter,  Passion,  that  are  Life : 

(A  frock  of  satin  for  an  hour's  shame, 

A  coat  of  fur  for  two  days'  servitude ; 

"  And  the  clothes  last,"  the  thought  runs  on  within 

The  poor  warped  girl-minds  drugged  with  changeless 

days, 

"  Who  cares  or  knows  after  the  hour  is  done? ") 
— Poor  little  beggars  at  Life's  door  for  Joy! 


20 


The  Beggars  21 

The  old  man  crouched  there,  eyeless,  horrible, 

Complacent  in  the  marketable  mask 

That  earned  his  comforts — and  they  gave  to  him! 

But  ah,  the  little  painted,  wistful  faces 
Questioning  Life  for  Joy ! 


THE  NET 

THE  strangers'  children  laugh  along  the  street : 
They  know  not,  or  forget  the  sweeping  of  the  Net 
Swift  to  ensnare  such  little  careless  feet. 

And  we — we  smile  and  watch  them  pass  along, 
And  those  who  walk  beside,  soft-smiling,  cruel-eyed- 
We  guard  our  own — not  ours  to  right  the  wrong! 

We  do  not  care — we  shall  not  heed  or  mark, 
Till  we  shall  hear  one  day,  too  late  to  strive  or  pray, 
Our  daughters'  voices  crying  from  the  dark! 


TERESINA'S  FACE 

HE  saw  it  last  of  all  before  they  herded  in  the  steerage, 
Dusk  against  the  sunset  where  he  lingered  by  the 

hold— 
The   tear-stained,   dusk-rose    face   of   her,   the   little 

Teresina, 
Sailing  out  to  lands  of  gold. 

Ah,  his  days  were  long,  long  days,  still  toiling  in  the 

vineyard, 

Working  for  the  gold  to  set  him  free  to  go  to  her, 
Where   gay   there   glowed   the   flower-face   of   little 

Teresina, 
Where  all  joy  and  riches  were.  .  .  . 

Hard  to  find  one  rose-face  where  the  dark  rose-faces 

cluster, 
Where  the  outland  laws  are  strange  and  outland 

voices  hum — 

Only  one  lad's  hoping,  and  the  word  of  Teresina, 
Who  would  wait  for  him  to  come : 

God  grant  he  may  not  find  her,  since  he  may  not  win 

her  freedom, 

Nor  yet  be  great  enough  to  love  in  such  marred,  cap- 
tive guise 

The  patient,  painted  face  of  her,  the  little  Teresina, 
With  its  cowed,  all-knowing  eyes! 
23 


A  CAFE  SINGER 

SHE  shaped  her  painted  smile  that  night 

Before  the  painted  trees, 
And  postured  in  her  drenching  light, 

And  shrilled  her  songs,  to  please 
The  night-worn  city  faces 

With  dull  indecencies. 

And  then  .  .  .  she  nodded  from  her  place 
Across  the  smoke-drugged  air 

To  some  old  man's  attracted  face, 
Half-drunken  in  his  chair.  .  .  . 

And  sang  him  "  Annie  Laurie  " 
As  if  green  woods  were  there ! 

That  brave  old  song  of  moor-winds  keen, 

Of  heather-breath,  and  snow, 
Of  love  all-worshipful,  and  clean 

Young  faith  of  long  ago.  .  .  . 
" Maxwelltoris  braes  are  bonnie !"  .   .   . 

Poor  child!    How  could  she  know? 


THE  GUIDES 

WHERE  have  you  been  the  long  day  through, 

Little  brothers  of  mine? 
For  soon  the  world  shall  belong  to  you, 
Yours  to  mar  or  to  build  anew — 
Have  you  been  to  learn  what  the  world  shall  do, 

Little  brothers  going  home? 

We  have  been  to  learn  through  the  weary  day 
Where  the  great  looms  echo  and  crash  and  sway — 
The  world  has  willed  it,  and  we  obey, 
Elder  brother. 

What  did  you  learn  till  set  of  sun, 

Little  brothers  of  mine, 
Down  where  the  great  looms  wove  and  spun, 
You  who  are  many  where  we  are  one 
(We  whose  day  is  so  nearly  done), 

Little  brothers  toiling  home? 

We  have  learned  the  things  that  the  mill-folk  said, 
How  Man  is  cruel  and  God  is  dead.  .  .  . 
And  how  to  spin  with  an  even  thread, 
Elder  brother. 

25 


26  The  Guides 

What  did  you  win  with  the  thing  they  taught, 

Little  brothers  of  mine, 

You  whose  sons  shall  have  strength  you  brought, 
Fashion  their  lives  of  the  faith  you  bought, 
Follow  afar  the  ways  you  sought, 

Little  brothers  stealing  home? 

Shattered  body  and  stunted  brain, 
Hearts  made  hard  with  the  need  of  gain, 
These  we  won  and  must  give  again, 
Elder  brother. 

How  shall  the  world  fare  in  your  hand, 

Little  brothers  of  mine, 
When  you  shall  stand  where  now  we  stand? 
Will  you  lift  a  light  in  the  darkened  land, 
Or  fire  its  ways  with  a  burning  brand, 

Little  brothers  creeping  home? 

W hat  of  the  way  the  world  shall  fare? 
What  the  world  has  given  the  world  must  bear.  .  . 
We  are  tired — ah,  tired — and  we  cannot  care, 
Elder  brother! 


A  POOR  CHILD 

THE  little  dreamer  is  dead 

Who  would  have  woven  for  Man 

Thread  upon  golden  thread, 
Span  upon  silver  span, 

Into  the  dark  degrees 

Of  the  great  world-tapestries. 

For  God  had  given  him  dreams 
That  would  have  builded  earth 

To  a  place  of  heaven-schemes, 
Of  pity  and  peace  and  mirth — 

But  the  little  dreamer  is  dead, 

And  the  dreams  of  his  childish  head. 

There  were  not  under  the  stars 

Riches  enough  for  him  ; 
Men  have  to  wage  world-wars, 

Pile  the  great  towers  that  dim 
Beauty  of  sea  and  sky — 
The  children  are  left  to  die. 

In  this  our  merciful  day 

Saints  may  not  live  to  climb 

Their  crosses — and  who  shall  say 
In  what  short  pulse  of  time 

With  none  to  pity  or  hark 

Christ-children  die  in  the  dark? 
27 


A  CHRISTMAS  DOLL 

SMILING  dolly  with  the  eyes  of  blue, 
Was  it  lovely  where  they  fashioned  you, 
Were  there  laughing  gnomes,  and  did  the  breeze 
Toss  the  snow  along  the  Christmas  trees  ? 
Tiny  Hands  and  Mil,  and  thin  rags  torn, 
Faces  drawn  with  waking  night  and  morn, 
Eyes  that  strained  until  they  could  not  see, 
Little  mother,  where  they  fashioned  me. 

Gold-haired  dolly  in  the  silken  dress, 
Tell  me  where  you  found  your  loveliness, 
Were  they  fairy  folk  who  clad  you  so, 
Gold  wands  quivering  and  wings  aglow? 
Narrow  walls  and  low,  and  tumbled  bed, 
One  dim  lamp  to  see  to  knot  the  thread, 
This  was  all  I  saw  till  dark  came  down, 
Little  mother,  where  they  sewed  my  gown. 

Rosy  dolly  on  my  Christmas  tree, 
Tell  the  lovely  things  you  saw  to  me, 
Were  there  golden  birds  and  silver  dew 
In  the  fairylands  they  brought  you  through? 
Weary  footsteps  all  and  weary  faces 
Serving  crowds  within  the  crowded  places, 
This  was  all  I  saw  the  Christ-eve  through, 
Little  mother,  ere  I  came  to  you. 
28 


A  Christmas  Doll  29 

Smiling  dolly  in  the  Christmas-green, 
What  do  all  these  cruel  stories  mean? 
Are  there  children,  then,  who  cannot  say 
Thanks  to  Christ  for  this  his  natal  day? 
Ay,  there's  weariness  and  want  and  shame, 
Pain  and  evil  in  the  good  Lord's  name, 
Things  the  peasant  Christ-child  could  not  know 
On  his  quiet  birthday  long  ago! 


THE  OLD  TOWN 

THE  city  lights  are  gold  and  red  and  strung  in  garlands 

overhead, 
They  whirl  and  dance  and  turn  and  spread  till  night's 

like  day, 
Till  all  the  wild  that's  part  of  you  comes  leaping  from 

the  heart  of  you 

And  swings  you  all  aquiver  down  the  flashing  way : 
But  oh,  the  little  old  lights,  not  garlanded  nor  gold 

lights, 
One  by  one  they  petalled  out,  the  pleasant  lights  you 

knew, 
As  up  and  down  the  pavement's  hem  the  old  man 

limped  a-lighting  them, 

The  old  lamps  in  the  old  town  when  the  sleepy  day 
was  through. 

The  city  streets  are  straight  and  wide,  and  hurrying  on 

every  side 
The  people  crowd  and  cross  and  ride  and  elbow 

past, 
Till  down  the  pavement's  noise  and  beat  your  feet  keep 

time  to  swifter  feet, 

The  pulses  of  the  city  as  it  hastens  fast : 
But  oh,  the  little  town  streets,  the  rambling  up-and- 
down  streets, 

All  the  twists  and  turns  are  just  the  way  they  used 
to  be: 

30 


The  Old  Town  31 

You'd  think  the  very  dead  you  knew  might  round  a 

lane  and  smile  at  you 
And  nod  a  careless  welcome  in  the  old  way  cheerily. 

The  city's  gay  and  wild  and  kind,  and  full  of  joy 

for  you  to  find, 
And  all  its  ways  that  cross  and  wind  are  blithe 

each  one, 
It's  like  a  sweetheart  beckoning;  and,  laughing  at  the 

reckoning, 
You  spring  to  follow  after  till  your  youth-time's 

done: 
But  glad  of  you  and  sad  of  you,  the  little  wistful  lad 

of  you, 
Leaps  up  to  greet  the  old  place  when  you're  grown 

too  old  to  roam: 

It's  like  your  mother  calling  you — whatever  is  befall- 
ing you, 

The  little  old  town's  waiting  till  you're  ready  to  come 
home. 


THE  TWISTED  SOULS 

THEY  work  at  our  command;  they  weave  and  spin; 
The  shuttles  and  the  steps  go  out  and  in, 
Go  back  and  forth:  through  time  and  life  and  tears 
They  pace  and  weave  for  us  throughout  the  years. 

And  through  the  years  we  weave  their  souls  for  them, 
Spotted  and  warped  and  wried  about  the  hem, 
Knotted  with  weariness  and  marked  with  toil, 
Souls  twisted  like  the  warp  their  tired  hands  spoil. 

What  shall  we  do  with  all  these  souls  that  lie 
Thick  by  the  ways  where  our  light  feet  pass  by? 
God  does  not  say  in  anger  (as  would  we), 
"  Do  over  now  your  task  done  evilly, 

Make  straight  and  clean  these  souls  you  soil  and  break, 
Or  for  your  evil  doing  I  will  take 
What  you  have  made  from  you."     He  lets  us  keep 
Peace  and  self-comforting  and  happy  sleep. 

He  lets  us  deck  our  lives  and  make  them  fair, 
Keep  light  and  mirth,  and  flowers  in  our  hair. 
He  waits;  the  little  lovely  things  we  know 
Beneath  our  white  hands  lift  and  smile  and  grow : 

Power  to  appraise  the  rose  of  sunset-light, 
Wisdom  to  judge  the  music's  tones  aright, 

32 


The  Twisted  Souls  33 

Delight  in  carven,  builded  words  that  pile 
High  while  we  sit  and  listen  soft,  and  smile, 

Love  for  our  own  folk  of  our  finer  clay.  .  .  . 
These  things  are  good.     But  what  if  God  should  say, 
"  These  little  fairnesses  and  sweets  you  fold 
Around  your  souls  to  wrap  them  from  the  cold, 

They  are  but  play-work  for  the  end  of  night 
When  all  My  tasks  I  gave  are  done  aright: 
What  of  the  souls  I  gave  into  your  care — 
Have  you  them  ready  for  Me,  straight  and  fair?" 

Our  lives  go  on  from  pleasant  day  to  day. 
God  waits.     He  does  not  speak.  .  .  .    What  will  He 
say? 


PRISON-PEOPLE 

THE  May-scents  down  the  nightland 

Blew  wild  and  cool  and  far, 
And  a  free  sweet  air  flung  leaves  to  where 

Swung  a  little  free  white  star 
By  the  long  wall  and  weary 

Where  the  Prison-People  are. 

They  were  the  foolish  children 

Who  could  not  find  their  way 
From  out  their  night  to  any  light 

Nor  knew  there  could  be  day.  .  . 
And  the  evil  night-roads  called  them 

And  their  weak  feet  went  astray : 

They  were  the  crippled  brothers 

Who  could  not  tread  so  fast 
The  paths  of  wrong  as  the  swift  and  strong 

Who  sinned  their  sins  and  passed ; 
But  blundered  in  their  sinning 

And  were  trapped  and  bound  at  last. 

They  stay  shut  close  from  wandering 

And  we  go  free  outside; 
There  must  be  bars — yet  oh,  the  stars 

So  high  and  the  world  so  wide, 
So  near  the  little  darkened  cells 

Where  the  Prison-People  bide ! 

34 


Prison-People  35 


How  can  we  know  the  evil? 

How  can  we  know  the  right? 
How  can  we  part,  who  see  no  heart. 

The  darkness  from  the  light? 
We  only  know  that  free  we  go, 

And  they  lie  still  in  night. 


A  MOTHER  TO  THE  WAR-MAKERS 

THIS  is  my  son  that  you  have  taken, 

Guard  lest  your  gold-vault  walls  be  shaken, 

Never  again  to  speak  or  waken. 

This,  that  I  gave  my  life  to  make, 

This  you  have  bidden  the  vultures  break — 

Dead  for  your  selfish  quarrel's  sake ! 

This  that  I  built  of  all  my  years, 

Made  with  my  strength  and  love  and  tears, 

Dead  for  pride  of  your  shining  spears ! 

Just  for  your  playthings  bought  and  sold 
You  have  crushed  to  a  heap  of  mold 
Youth  and  life  worth  a  whole  world's  gold — 

This  was  my  son  that  you  have  taken, 
Guard  lest  your  gold-vault  walls  be  shaken — 
This — that  shall  never  speak  or  waken! 


WAR-MARCH 

"FOR  this  were  ye  made,"  the  King  saith, 

"  To  be  sent  to  death 

For  the  sake  of  Our  thrones; 

For  this  shall  your  women  breed 

Fighting-men  to  our  need; 

For  this  shall  ye  drudge — to  mold 

Toil  into  guarding  gold: 

For  We  build  Our  thrones 

Of  gold  and  of  dead  men's  bones, 

And  this  is  of  God,"  the  King  saith.  .  .  . 

"  Ay,"  said  the  Folk,  "  we  know. 

Great  are  God  and  the  King.     We  go." 

11  There  is  nothing  new  since  the  world  began, 

There  is  nothing  new"  swing  the  cheery  fife  and 

drum, 
"  There  is  nothing  new  in  all  the  land  of  man 

In  the  death  of  man,  in  the  hate  of  man, 
Ay,  the  mirth  and  killing  in  the  hand  of  man, 

Let  them  come!    Let  them  come!    Let  them  come! 
We  have  cheered  the  killing  on  the  earth  of  man 
Since  the  birth  of  man  for  the  mirth  of  man: 
There  is  nothing  new  in  all  the  wars  of  man — 

Let  them  come — let  them  come — let  them  come!" 

(Ay,  fife-and-drum  beat,  hideously  cheerful, 
Hideously  merry,  shrilly  heartening, 
37 


38  War-March 

Death-birds  settling  over  the  stricken  field, 
Widely  circling,  smooth,  unhurried  of  wing; 

Babes  born  dead  on  the  earth-heaps,  women  starving 
alone, 

Skulls  turned  up  in  the  plowing  a  century  hence  from 
the  mold, 

By  peoples  battle-dwarfed,  fearful, 

Ay,  fife-and-drum  beat,  hideously  cheerful, 

Joy-of -battle  unsealed, 
All  these  are  known — 

All  these  are  old.) 

Silent  troopers  tramping  down  the  roadway, 
(Horror  falls  when  the  drums  forget  to  beat) 

Heartbreak — heartbreak — heartbreak — heartbreak — 
Echoes  and  follows  from  the  heavy-marching  feet. 

Screaming  boys  lash-drafted  from  their  plowing, 
Fear-hushed  women  hoping  of  the  dead — 

Heartbreak — heartbreak — heartbreak — heartbreak — 
Answers  and  follows  on  the  ruthless-passing  tread. 

Strong  young  soldiers  singing  toward  their  death-place, 
Never  strong  more,  never  to  have  sons — 

Heartbreak — heartbreak — heartbreak — heartbreak — 
Throbs  their  tread  above  the  thunder  of  the  guns. 

Stiffened  hands  that  touch  no  sweetheart  ever, 
Mouths  agape,  in  horrid  laughter  curled — 

Heartbreak — heartbreak — heartbreak — heartbreak — 
Echoes     and     shudders     all     across     the     shaken 
world. 


War-March  39 

There  is  grief  on  the  forsaken  fields.  .  .  . 

(Sorrow!  wail  the  bugles  .  .  .  O  endless  sorrow  and 
grieving!) 

For  the  food  that  shall  rot  ungarnered,  for  the  hungry 
who  shall  not  eat, 

For  the  starving  years  that  must  follow  the  track  in 
the  trampled  wheat, 

For  the  girl-children  tortured  and  ravished,  the  old 
women  lashed  and  maimed, 

For  the  babies  nailed  up  by  the  foot-palms,  the  shud- 
dering mothers  shamed.  .  .  . 

(Sorrow!  wail  the  bugles  .  .  .  O  endless  sorrow  and 
grieving!) 

For  the  hearts  of  the  men  made  brutal,  made  mur- 
derers evermore, 

For  the  world  a  century  halted  by  challenging  guards 
of  war, 

For  death  .  .  .  and  for  hate  .  .  .  and  for  hun- 
ger. .  .  . 

(Sorrow!  cry  the  bugles  far  off  in  the  future.  .  .  . 
Sorrow!) 

("  Were  we  made  for  this?"  asked  the  Folk 

Lifting  their  eyes  from  the  sod 

A  little  way  to  peer 

From  the  crushing-weighted  yoke 

Of  toil  and  of  slaughterings 

Of  the  King  and  his  battle-lust, 

The  King  and  his  battle-God: 


40  War-March 

And  the  sullen  murmur  broke 
Like  waves  when  the  storm  is  near.  .  .  . 
"  The  Kings/'  they  said,  "  are  but  dust— 
Who  hath  made  our  world  for  Kings?" ) 


AN  OLD  PORTRAIT 

FLOWER-DECKED,  wide-skirted,  from  her  oval  frame 
She  watches  us  between  the  drooping  curls 
And  smiles  a  little  as  she  always  smiled. 

She  was  a  woman  of  the  older  day : 

She  could  not  cry  of  elemental  things, 

She  suffered  them,  scarce  knowing  what  they  were — 

She  could  not  speak  of  them  aloud  to  men. 

Lady  and  slave,  saint  and  barbarian, 

She  was  not  just  or  cold  or  merciful, 

She  only  swiftly  hated  or  adored ; 

Her  heart  was  narrow-bound  and  passionate, 

Smoothed  out  and  wreathed  with  blue  forget-me-nots 

Valentine-fashion,  lest  the  red  should  show. 

She  could  not  speak  of  love  aloud  to  men — 

She  could  have  died  for  love : 

Brave  for  her  love's  sake  against  gods  or  friends, 

Brave  for  her  love's  sake  against  even  men 

(The  more  real  gods  of  her  idolatry) 

She  was  not  wise  nor  public-spirited ; 

She  could  bear  heroes,  never  understand  them. 

Her  passions  hid  themselves  in  sentiment 
Or  broke  in  sobs  at  night-time  silently 
Lest  any  one  should  hear  them  and  be  grieved. 

41 


42  An  Old  Portrait 

She  drugged  her  mind  when  all  her  work  was  through 
For  a  brief  time,  with  other  women's  work, 
Stories  of  feverish  love  she  dreamed  might  be, 
Or  knew  was  not,  or  wished  could  be  for  her, 
Of  women  like  herself,  men  she  had  seen 
Through  the  rose-glow  of  courtship  long  ago, 
Ere  she  was  flung  from  haloed  ignorance 
Into  the  pit  of  Truth  her  wedding-ring 
Was  trap  to — and  through  all  the  shock  held  still 
And  smiled  a  little  as  she  always  smiled. 

She  lived  within  a  world  with  walls  made  proof 

From  noise  of  evil  or  of  suffering, 

Shut  in  her  cell  from  other  women's  pain ; 

But  then  she  hated  other  women  still 

Beneath  her  gentleness  and  courtesy; 

They  might  desire  to  win  some  man  of  hers, 

Husband  or  son  or  brother  that  she  loved. 

Sincere  in  self-deception,  loving  God, 

(That  personal  God  who  could  not  help  the  ill, 

But  must  be  thanked  for  good),  doing  for  Him 

Kind  concrete  little  deeds  to  palliate 

The  great  world-sores  the  while  she  shut  her  eyes 

To  the  sores'  causes — 

Still  she  sits,  a  sphinx, 
Half  goddess,  half  a  tigress!     Silent  still 
And  smiling:  gentle,  good,  she  bends  and  smiles 
Between  the  drooping  curls,  below  the  wreath, 
Down  at  the  fetter-bracelets  on  her  hands, 
Smiles  up  a  little  still  from  out  the  frame 
That  circumscribes  her  like  her  world  of  old. 


THE  OLD  SUFFRAGIST 

SHE  could  have  loved — her  woman-passions  beat 
Deeper  than  theirs,  or  else  she  had  not  known 

How  to  have  dropped  her  heart  beneath  their  feet 
A  living  stepping-stone: 

The  little  hands — did  they  not  clutch  her  heart? 

The  guarding  arms — was  she  not  very  tired? 
Was  it  an  easy  thing  to  walk  apart, 

Unresting,  undesired? 

She  gave  away  her  crown  of  woman-praise, 
Her  gentleness  and  silent  girlhood  grace, 

To  be  a  merriment  for  idle  days, 
Scorn  for  the  market-place: 

She  strove  for  an  unvisioned,  far-off  good, 

For  one  far  hope  she  knew  she  should  not  see : 

These — not  her  daughters — crowned  with  mother- 
hood 
And  love  and  beauty — free. 


43 


THE  HOUSEKEEPER 

"On,  Woman,  what  is  the  thing  you  do,  and  what  is 

the  thing  you  cry? 
Is  your  house  not  warm  and  inclosed  from  harm,  that 

you  thrust  the  curtain  by? 
And  have  we  not  toiled  to  build  for  you  a  peace  from 

the  winds  outside, 
That  you  seek  to  know  how  the  battles  go  and  ride 

where  the  fighters  ride?" 

t 
You  have  taken  my  spindle  away  from  me,  you  have 

taken  away  my  loom, 
You  bid  me  sit  in  the  dust  of  it,  at  peace  without  cloth 

or  broom, 
You  have  shut  me  still  with  a  sleepy  will,  with  nor  evil 

nor  good  to  do, 
While  our  house  the  World  that  we  keep  for  God 

should  be  garnished  and  swept  anew. 

The  evil  things  that  have  waxed  and  grown  while  I 

sat  with  my  white  hands  still, 
They  have  meshed  our  World  till  they  twined  and 

curled  through  my  very  window-sill ; 
Shall  I  sit  and  smile  at  mine  ease  the  while  that  my 

house  is  wrongly  kept? 
It  is  mine  to  see  that  the  house  of  me  is  straightened 

and  cleansed  and  swept! 
44 


The  Housekeeper  45 

My  daughters  strive  for  their  souls  alive,  harried  and 

starved  and  cold — 
Shall  I  bear  it  long,  who  was  swift  and  strong  in 

guarding  them  white  of  old? 
My  children  cry  in  our  house  the  World,  neglected  and 

hard-oppressed — - 
Is  my  right  not  then  to  command  all  men  to  be  still 

while  the  children  rest? 

I  who  labored  beside  my  mate  when  the  work  of  the 

World  began, 
The  watch  I  kept  while  my  children  slept  I  will  keep 

to-day  by  Man : 
I  have  crouched  too  long  by  the  little  hearths  at  the 

bidding  of  Man  my  mate — 
I  go  to  kindle  the  Hearth  of  the  World,  that  Man  has 

left  desolate ! 


THE  WOMEN'S  LITANY 

LET  us  in  through  the  guarded  gate, 
Let  us  in  for  our  pain's  sake ! 
Lips  set  smiling  and  face  made  fair 
Still  for  you  through  the  pain  we  bare, 
We  have  hid  till  our  hearts  were  sore 
Blacker  things  than  you  ever  bore : 
Let  us  in  through  the  guarded  gate, 
Let  us  in  for  our  pain's  sake! 

Let  us  in  through  the  guarded  gate, 
Let  us  in  for  our  strength's  sake ! 
Light  held  high  in  a  strife  ne'er  through 
We  have  fought  for  our  sons  and  you, 
We  have  conquered  a  million  years' 
Pain  and  evil  and  doubt  and  tears — 
Let  us  in  through  the  guarded  gate, 
Let  us  in  for  our  strengths  sake! 

Let  us  in  through  the  guarded  gate, 
Let  us  in  for  your  own  sake ! 
We  have  held  you  within  our  hand, 
Marred  or  made  as  we  broke  or  planned, 
We  have  given  you  life  or  killed 
King  or  brute  as  we  taught  or  willed — 
Let  us  in  through  the  guarded  gate, 
Let  us  in  for  your  own  sake! 
46 


The  Women's  Litany  47 

Let  us  in  through  the  guarded  gate, 
Let  us  in  for  the  world's  sake ! 
We  are  blind  who  must  guide  your  eyes, 
We  are  weak  who  must  help  you  rise, 
All  untaught  who  must  teach  and  mold 
Souls  of  men  till  the  world  is  old — 
Let  us  in  through  the  guarded  gate, 
Let  us  in  for  the  world's  sake! 


A  MARCHING  SONG  OF  WOMEN 

GOD  has  not  told  us  whither  we  are  going : 
Only  the  seed  our  heart  holds  is  His  sowing — 
Only  we  follow  in  His  great  wind  blowing. 

Not  like  a  trumpet-cry  on  high  outleaping, 
Most  like  a  woman's  moan  or  a  child's  weeping 
Came  the  great  Word  to  us,  apart  and  sleeping; 

Only  the  Whisper  came  to  us  awaking, 

Like  a  low  wind  across  the  wheat-fields  shaking, 

"Follow  and  come!    A  path  is  made  for  taking! 

Once  wise  men  blazed  a  path  for  this  world's  needing, 
Followed  unhoping  where  their  Truth  was  leading; 
Now  ye  must  tread,  where  once  their  feet  trod  bleed- 
ing." 

Frightened  we  whispered,  each  to  each,  out-peering, 

Each  still  unknowing  of  the  other's  fearing — 

"  Sister,  you  heard  it?    Sister,  you,  too,  hearing? " 

Until  we  followed  in  the  faint  dawn-golding, 
White  hand  outreached  to  hand  unused  to  holding, 
Followed  the  pathway  still  unguessed  unfolding: 

48 


A  Marching  Song  of  Women  49 

Ay,  still  we  follow  till  the  night  is  falling, 

Still,  though  the  path  be  rough  or  burdens  galling, 

Still  we  must  follow  at  the  Whisper's  calling: 

God  has  not  told  us  whither  we  are  going, 
Only  the  seed  our  heart  holds  is  His  sowing — 
Only  we  follow  in  His  great  wind  blowing! 


THE  SETTLEMENT  WORKER 

You  gave  bread  to  the  poor,  my  mother — 
/  go  to  give  my  heart. 

What  will  they  do  with  your  heart,  my  daughter? 

Maybe  they  will  tear  it — maybe  they  will  trample  it, 
Toss  it  down  apart. 

But  what   will  they  give  you   for  your  heart,   my 

daughter, 

This  gift  from  out  your  hand  ? 
You  are  going  from  the  vision  of  your  own  who  could 

see  with  you, 

Going  from  the  loving  of  your  own  who  could  com- 
fort you, 

From  those  who  understand: 
What  of  the  little  foolish  things  bred  in  the  bone  of 

you, 
What  of  the  little  things  that  make  the  life  and  soul 

of  you 

From  many  hundred  years  ? 

You  and  all  these  may  be  sisters  in  the  heart  of  you, 
But  what  of  the  chains  that  shall  hold  the  souls  apart 

of  you — 

Old  feelings,  instincts,  fears? 
Your  heart  you  can  give  them  to  cling  to  or  trample 

on — 


The  Settlement  Worker  51 

Never  the  soul  that  a  thousand  women  shaped  for  you 
Who  have  walked  daintily ! 

Ay,  they  gave  bread  to  the  poor,  my  mother, 

I  give  the  heart  in  me. 

What  does  it  matter,  although  they  shall  tear  it? 

What  does  it  matter,  although  they  shall  trample  it, 

Or  if  it  break  and  die? 

The  trampled  heart  shall  be  a  bridge  for  forward-going 

footsteps, 

The  torn  heart  shall  be  a  sign  for  torn  hearts  to  follow, 
A  light  raised  up  on  high — 
You  gave  bread  to  the  poor,  my  mother, 
I  go  to  give  my  heart. 


THE  WAR-GOD 

THE  War-God  wakened  drowsily; 
There  were  gold  chains  about  his  hands; 
He  said,  "  And  who  shall  reap  my  lands 
And  bear  the  tithes  to  Death  for  me? 

The  nations  stilled  my  thunderings — 
They  wearied  of  my  steel  despair, 
The  flames  from  out  my  burning  hair — 
Shall  there  be  ending  of  these  things  ?  " 

Low  laughed  the  Earth,  and  answered,  "  When 
Was  any  changeless  law  I  gave 
Changed  by  my  sons  intent  to  save, 
By  puny  pitying  hands  of  men  ? 

I  have  no  gifts  for  some  I  bear. 

The  swarming  hungering  overflow 

Of  crowding  millions  doomed  to  go 

They  shall  destroy,  who  chained  you  there. 

For  some  bright  stone  or  shining  praise 
They  stint  a  million  bodies'  breath 
And  send  the  women  shamed  to  death 
And  will  the  men  brief  length  of  days: 
5? 


The  War-God  53 

They  kill  the  bodies  soon  for  me 
And  kill  the  souls  you  gave  to  peace — 
You  were  more  merciful  than  these, 
Old  master  of  my  cruelty. 

Lo,  souls  are  spoiled  and  virtues  dim; 
Rise  from  the  silence  suddenly, 
Take  back  thy  scourge  of  ministry, 
Lest  these  still  take  Death's  toll  to  him ! " 

The  War-God  snapped  his  golden  chain ; 
His  mercies  thundered  down  the  world, 
And  lashing  battle-lines  unfurled 
Scourged  through  the  crouching  lands  again : 

The  grinding  wheels  of  Greed  and  Lust 
Checked — clean  was  Pestilence,  clean  Death, 
And  clean  to  God  rose  the  last  breath 
From  broken  bodies  in  the  dust. 


GOD  AND  THE  STRONG  ONES 

"  WE  have  made  them   fools  and  weak ! "   said  the 

Strong  Ones, 
"  We  have  bound  them,  they  are  dumb  and  deaf  and 

blind, 
We  have  crushed  them  in  our  hands  like  a  heap  of 

crumbling  sands, 

We  have  left  them  naught  to  seek  or  find : 
They  are  quiet  at  our  feet ! "  said  the  Strong  Ones, 
"  We  have  made  them  one  with  wood  and  stone  and 

clod; 
Serf  and  laborer  and  woman,  they  are  less  than  wise 

or  human! — " 
"I  shall  raise  the  weak!"  saith  God. 

"  They  are  stirring  in  the  dark ! "  said  the   Strong 

Ones, 
"  They  are  struggling,  who  were  moveless  like  the 

dead, 
We  can  hear  them  cry  and  strain  hand  and  foot  against 

the  chain, 

We  can  hear  their  heavy  upward  tread.  .  .  . 
What  if  they  are  restless  ?  "  said  the  Strong  Ones, 

"  What  if  they  have  stirred  beneath  the  rod? 
Fools  and  weak  and  blinded  men,  we  can  tread  them 

down  again — " 

"Shall  ye  conquer  Me?"  saith  God. 
54 


God  and  the  Strong  Ones  55 

"  They  are  evil  and  are  brutes !  "  said  the  Strong  Ones, 

"  They  are  ingrates  of  the  ease  and  peace  we  give, 
We  have  stooped  to  them  in  grace  and  they  mock  us 
to  our  face — 

How  shall  we  give  light  to  them  and  live  ? 
They  are  all  unworthy  grace ! "  said  the  Strong  Ones, 

"  They  that  cowered  at  our  lightest  look  or  nod — " 
"  This  that  now  ye  pause  and  weigh  of  your  grace  may 
prove  one  day 

Mercy  that  ye  need!"  saith  God. 

"  They  will  trample  us  and  bind ! "  said  the  Strong 

Ones; 
"We  are  crushed  beneath  the  blackened  feet  and 

hands, 
All  the  strong  and  fair  and  great  they  will  crush  from 

out  the  state, 
They  will  whelm  it  with  the  weight  of  pressing 

sands — 
They  are  maddened  and  are  blind !  "  saith  the  Strong 

Ones, 

"  Black  decay  has  come  where  they  have  trod, 
They  will  break  the  world  in  twain  if  their  hands  are 

on  the  rein — " 
"  What  is  that  to  me?  "  saith  God. 

"  Ye  have  made  them  in  their  strength,  who  were 

Strong  Ones, 

Ye  have  only  taught  the  blackness  ye  have  known; 
These  are  evil  men  and  blind? — Ay,  but  molded  to 

your  mind! 
How  shall  ye  cry  out  against  your  own? 


56  God  and  the  Strong  Ones 

Ye  have  held  the  light  and  beauty  I  have  given 
Far  above  the  muddied  ways  where  they  must  plod, 

Ye  have  builded  this  your  lord  with  the  lash  and  with 

the  sword — 
Reap  what  ye  have  sown!"  saith  God. 


THE   WANDERING  SINGER 


THE  LITTLE  COMFORTERS 

I  HAVE  my  little  thoughts  for  comforters ; 

They  run  by  me  all  day, 
Holding  up  scented  memory  that  stirs 

My  dull  accustomed  way: 

They  murmur  of  green  lanes  we  used  to  go 

(For  here  the  Spring  forgets 
To  set  the  roadways  thick  with  grass,  and  sow 

The  paths  with  violets:) 

Here  the  loud  city  crashes,  and  all  words 

Echo  and  scream  and  cry, 
Yet  there  were  lake-sounds  once  (they  tell)  and  birds 

Called  from  a  twilit  sky: 

There  still  a  sweet  wind  strokes  the  slumberers 

And  the  cool  grass  waves  deep.  .  .  . 
I  have  my  little  thoughts  for  comforters, 

Who  whisper  me  to  sleep. 


59 


THE  CAPTIVE 

THE  foolish  dream  is  torn  now,  that  clung  about  my 

feet, 
The  wistful  dream  and  ruthless,  the  blinding  dream 

and  sweet, 

And  I  shall  choose  my  path  now  as  any  freeman  may, 
And  find  the  track  of  sunlight,  and  seek  the  path  of 
day. 

And  I  shall  challenge  lightheart  all  good  and  evil 
things 

That  fate  may  send  to  face  me  in  wildfoot  wander- 
ings, 

And  I  shall  hasten  singing,  and  know  that  there  may 
lie 

For  me  the  rainbow's  gold-heap  between  the  hill  and 
sky. 

There  shall  be  voices  laughing  along  the  way  I  go, 
And  feet  to  dance  with  my  feet,  that  no  more  wander 

slow, 
And  clinging  hands  in  my  hands,  that  loose  without 

regret, 
And  careless  love  and  light  love,  and  kisses  I  forget. 

The  foolish  dream  is  gone  now,  my  feet  and  heart 
are  free, 

60 


The  Captive  61 

And  yet  my  slow  steps  linger,  my  heart  lags  wearily — 
Oh,  hasten,  feet  imprisoned!     Oh,  chainless  heart,  be 

fleet ! 
For  oh,  the  dream  is  ruthless — for  oh,  the  dream  is 

sweet! 


A  COUNTRY  CAROL 

WHERE  the  patient  oxen  were,  by  the  ass's  stall, 
Watching  my  Lord's  manger  knelt  the  waking  cattle 

all; 

'Twas  a  little  country  maid  vigil  by  Him  kept — 
All  among  the  country  things  my  good  Lord  slept. 
Fair  was  Rome  the  city  on  that  early  Christmas  morn, 
Yet  among  the  country-folk  was  my  Lord  born ! 

Country-lads  that  followed  Him,  blithe  they  were  and 

kind, 

It  was  only  city-folk  were  hard  to  Him  and  blind : 
Ay,  He  told  of  lilies,  and  of  grain  and  grass  that  grew, 
Fair  things  of  the  summer  fields  my  good  Lord  knew, 
By  the  hedgerows'  flowering  there  He  laid  His  head — 
It  was  in  the  country  that  my  Lord  was  bred. 

When  the  cross  weighed  down  on  Him,  on  the  grievous 

road, 
'Twas  a  kindly  countryman  raised  my  good  Lord's 

load  ; 

Peasant-girls  of  Galilee,  folk  of  Nazareth, 
These  were  fain  to  follow  Him  down  the  ways  of 

death- 
Yea,  beyond  a  city  wall,  underneath  the  sky, 
Out  in  open  country  did  my  good  Lord  die. 

62 


A  Country  Carol  63 

When  He  rose  to  Heaven  on  that  white  Ascension  day 
Last  from  open  country  did  my  good  Lord  pass  away  ; 
Rows  of  golden  seraphim  watched  where  He  should 

dwell, 

Yet  it  was  the  country-folk  had  my  Lord's  farewell : 
Out  above  the  flowered  hill,  from  the  mossy  grass, 
Up  from  open  country  did  my  good  Lord  pass. 

Where  the  jeweled  minsters  are,  where  the  censers 
sway, 

There  they  kneel  to  Christ  the  Lord  on  this  His  bear- 
ing-day : 

But  I  shall  stay  to  greet  Him  where  the  bonny  fields 
begin, 

Like  the  fields  that  once  my  good  Lord  wandered  in, 

Where  His  thorn-tree  flowered  once,  where  His  spar- 
rows soared, 

In  the  open  country-land  of  my  good  Lord ! 


THE  SINGING  LEAVES 

A  RED  wreath  of  the  Singing  Leaves 

I  carry  up  and  down, 
And  some,  they  call  it  a  cap-and-bells, 

Some  say  it  is  a  crown. 

And  they  who  call  it  cap-and-bells 

Mock  when  I  pass  them  by, 
And  they  who  call  it  a  diadem 

Would  set  me  throned  on  high. 

But  none  will  speak  me  brotherly, 

Or  clasp  me,  hand  with  hand, 
Because  of  the  wreath  of  the  Singing  Leaves 

I  carry  through  the  land : 

And  yet  there's  neither  cap-and-bells 

Nor  diadem  I  wear, 
Only  the  wreath  of  the  Singing  Leaves 

That  God  has  made  me  bear ! 


64 


THE  BALLAD  OF  GOD'S  TOWN 

MY  love  that  dwelt  in  London, 

She  sent  me  word  to  say 
That  I  should  speed  to  greet  her 

Before  she  went  away: 
O  fast  I  hastened  to  her 

As  feet  and  heart  could  fly, 
But  she  was  fled  to  a  far  townland 

Ere  ever  I  could  come  nigh. 
To  God's  Town,  where  'tis  weary  to  follow, 

0  there  had  she  gone, 

To  God's  Town,  that  is  west  o  the  sunset. 
And  east  o'  the  dawn! 

My  love  that  dwelt  in  London, 

1  broke  the  roses  red, 
And  daisies  white  and  yellow, 

To  wind  about  her  head, 
But  ere  I  had  them  gathered, 

And  woven  in  a  ring, 
She  was  weaving  wreaths  on  the  lawns  o'  Heaven 

In  sight  of  the  Holy  King. 
In  God's  Town,  where  lives  many  a  maiden, 

O  then  was  she  there, 
In  God's  Town,  with  a  ring  of  gold  glory 

Above  her  gold  hair! 
65 


66  The  Ballad  of  God's  Town 

My  love  that  dwelt  in  London, 

She  sewed  her  wedding-gown, 
All  shaped  of  silks  and  satins, 

With  laces  hanging  down, 
But  when  they  set  it  on  her, 

O  very  still  was  she, 
And  she  wore  it  into  the  far  townland 

Ere  ever  she  married  me. 
In  God's  Town,  O  'tis  there  I  shall  wed  her, 

While  all  the  saints  sing, 
In  God's  Town,  where  the  silver-clad  angels 

Shall  cry  welcoming! 


AFTER  SUNSET 

I  HAVE  heard  calling  of  birds 
Where  no  birds  are  now : 
Now  there  is  only 
Dusk  and  a  silence : 
Only  a  swift  wind  hunting 
Over  the  lightless  lake, 
Over  the  shuddering  water 
After  the  day  gone.  .  .  . 
Only  the  chill — and  the  dread 
Of  the  silence. 

I  cannot  think  of  the  sky, 

Golden-lilac  and  rose, 

Crossed  by  the  small  dark  birds 

An  hour  ago: 

I  cannot  remember  now 

Here  in  the  darkening, 

Olive  and  rose  of  the  lake 

Crossed  by  the  dipping  wings, 

Glimmering  friendly  water.  .  .  . 

Only  the  merciless  dusk 

And  the  silence. 


ASLEEP  IN  SPRING 

"  WAKE  !  "  call  the  birds  that  cry 

Down  the  light  lashing  breeze, 
While  the  spring  waters  stir, 

Loosen  and  leap : 
"  It  is  too  long  you  lie 

Under  the  tossing  trees — 
Dreamer  and  wanderer, 

Waken  from  sleep !  " 

Life  was  a  flame  in  you, 

Thrilling  and  wondering, 
You  were  a  calling  song, 

You  were  a  light, 
Joy  was  your  passing  through 

Our  lives'  unchanging  ring — 
How  may  you  now  so  long 

Lie  still  in  night  ? 

Are  you  still  sleeping  there, 

Dreamer  and  wanderer  ? 
All  the  Spring  courses  wild, 

Ardent  and  deep; 
Once  you  were  swift  to  fare 

At  the  young  year's  first  stir — 
Dreamer  and  wanderer, 

Waken  from  sleep ! 
68 


A  MERRY  HEART 

MY  brothers  for  their  part 
Were  given  gold  and  fame, 

But  all  my  share  was  a  merry  heart, 
Wild  as  a  dancing  flame; 

Oh,  earth  is  dark  with  gold, 
And  every  wind  that  blows 

Sets  flying  dusty  fame  of  old 
Withered,  that  no  man  knows ; 

But  Joy  is  dear,  men  say, 

Laughter  is  far  to  find, 
Few  are  the  dancing  hearts  to-day, 

Merry  and  mad  and  blind. 

What  do  I  need  of  state, 
Of  fame  or  golden  store  ? 

Beggars  of  joy  my  brothers  wait 
Weary  beside  my  door ! 

Then  let  them  pace  apart, 

Poor  with  their  fame  and  fee — 
Lord  o'  the  world,  my  merry  heart 

Ranges  the  roads  with  me! 


69 


SEA-LOVERS 

THERE  is  dark  water  drenching  through  our  days, 

White-fingered,  beckoning, 
Washing  from  us  all  flame  of  love  that  stays, 

All  warmth  of  hands  that  cling : 

There  are  no  hearts  but  love  us  to  their  loss, 

No  souls  that  ours  shall  keep, 
Whose  hearts  the  tingling  breakers  flood  across, 

Whose  souls  the  sea-winds  sweep: 

The  earth  lies  waiting  wide-armed  in  the  sun, 

Self-given,  drowsy,  mild, 
We  seek  the  love  still  cruel,  still  unwon, 

Wind-glimmering  and  wild : 

And  though  she  draw  us  where  her  deep  heart  lies 

Still  shall  we  find  her  fair, 
Feeling  her  kiss  upon  our  closing  eyes, 

Her  spray-touch  on  our  hair. 


70 


THE  TWO  DYINGS 

I  CAN  remember  once,  ere  I  was  dead, 
The  sorrow  and  the  prayer  and  bitter  cry 

When  they  who  loved  me  stood  around  the  bed, 
Watching  till  I  should  die: 

They  need  not  so  have  grieved  their  souls  for  me, 
Grouped  statue-like  to  count  my  failing  breath- 
Only  one  thought  strove  faintly,  bitterly 
With  the  kind  drug  of  Death : 

How  once  upon  a  time,  unwept,  unknown, 
Unhelped  by  pitying  sigh  or  murmured  prayer, 

My  youth  died  in  slow  agony  alone 
With  none  to  watch  or  care. 


THE  JOYOUS  DREAM 

LAST  night — I  cannot  know  which  way  it  came 

Or  what  star-way  it  went — 
There  was  a  little  dream  without  a  name 

That  left  my  soul  content; 

I  have  forgotten  any  words  it  said 
And  all  its  starry-raptured  picturings, 

I  only  feel  the  errant  joy  that  fled 
And  fanned  me  with  its  wings; 

There  was  no  memory  when  morning  broke, 
No  echo-call  from  fairy  field  or  hill, 

Only  my  heart  was  singing  while  it  woke, 
And  sings  for  gladness  still ! 


UPLIFT 

MUST  I  always  sing  at  the  walls  to  hearten  the  men 

who  fight 
In  causes  changeful  as  wind  and  as  brief  as  a  summer 

night ; 

Must  I  always  praise  the  wisdom  of  Man  who  is  blind, 

blind-led, 
Of  kings  who  are  kings  for  a  day  and  are  dead  when 

the  day  is  dead; 

Of  right  that  is  wrong  to-morrow,  of  truths  that  were 

last  year's  lies, 
Of  little  strifes  and  upbuildings  that  die  when  a  nation 

dies? 

For  Rome  is  withered,  and  Hellas;  but  leaves  in  the 

wind  bow  still 
As  they  bowed  for  my  brother's  dreaming  who  sang 

by  some  dead  god's  hill, 

And  all  Assyria's  captains  are  dead  with  the  dead 

they  made, 
Dust  of  the  gyve  and  anklet  with  dust  of  the  casque 

and  blade, 

73 


74  Uplift 

But  wonderful  dreams  blow  still  in  the  swirl  of  gray 

smoke  new-gone 
As  they  blew  from  a  fire  at  twilight  for  my  brother 

in  Ascalon ; 

And  all  of  the  mighty  walls  men  have  reared  to  sweep 

down  again 
Are  thwarted  shadows  of  visions  some  poet  spun  far 

from  men. 

I  am  tired  of  praising  the  deeds  that  are  brief  as  a 

breath  may  be, 
That  change  with  the  mocking  turn  of  a  day  or  a 

century : 

I  will  go  and  spin  useless  dreams  that  shall  last  until 

men  are  hurled 
Out  into  the  space  of  the  Timeless  with  ash  of  a 

burning  world! 


YOUTH    LEARNS 


KNOWLEDGE 

IT  was  a  singing  hour,  when  little  winds 
And  fresh-blown  sunlight  quivered  on  the  leaves, 
And  lilac-fronds  hung  scented  thrillingly, 
And  all  was  glad  as  singing-birds  are  glad — 
My  wild  heart  glad  with  all  the  things  of  June. 

And  then  .  .  .  there  was  a  curtain  suddenly 
Drawn  black  against  all  gentle  sense-delights, 
And  my  heart  broke  with  darkness  weighing  it, 
And  I  lay  sobbing  on  the  jeweled  grass 
As  if  there  were  no  morning  any  more.  .  .  . 

And    then    my    heart    asked    through    its    sobbing, 

"Why? 

For  this  is  June,  and  I  am  young  and  glad, 
And  there  is  nothing  grievous  in  the  world 
That  hurts  me  nearly,  or  could  burden  me !  " 

Then  a  voice  tolled  from  out  the  aching  dark 
That  clutched  my  inner  soul-sense  terribly ; 

"  Across  five  seas  and  three  green  continents 
One  whom  your  mind  and  body  never  knew. 
But  whom  your  soul  loved  immemorially, 
Died,  on  this  hour  that  you  lie  weeping  here, 
Not  in  the  same  world  with  you  any  more ! " 

77 


THE  PROMISERS 

Now  you  know  they  were  never  true, 
Promises  that  your  heart  made  you 
Long  ago  when  the  world  was  young. 

Down  the  woodland  where  Youth  rode  maying 
Wild  birds  sang  what  the  heart  was  saying, 
High  and  low  as  the  bough  was  swung. 

"  Love  and  gold  for  the  choice  of  taking, 

Beauty's  kiss  for  the  cost  of  waking " 

(Still  they  sang  as  the  heart  had  sung!) 

"  All  great  deeds  of  the  wise  men's  planning 
Stay  for  you  where  the  rainbow's  spanning 
Dips  its  end  where  the  dews  are  strung; 

All  fair  dreams  that  a  heart  may  follow 
Wait  with  dusk  by  the  flowered  hollow, 
Sweet  and  close  as  the  star  low-hung." 

Youth  and  Spring,  how  they  lied  together! 
How  they  sang  in  the  wind-kissed  weather, 
Down  the  wood  where  the  wild  birds  clung! 

(Yet  they  surely  are  somewhere  true, 
Promises  that  your  heart  made  you, 
Long  ago  when  the  world  was  young!) 

78 


AN  OLD  WOMAN 

SHE  moves  from  gate  to  door, 
From  door  to  window-seat, 
To  porch  and  board  and  bed, 
Content  with  ease  and  heat, 
With  little  news-words  said, 
With  long-known  wall  and  floor 
She  speaks  of  her  fine  youth 
Gently,  complacently — 
The  lovers  that  she  had, 
As  I  have  lovers  now, 
And  how  her  heart  was  glad 
And  foolish,  too,  as  mine! 

Oh,  yet  it  hurts  my  throat, 
I  feel  my  lids  smart  keen 
Pity  for  this  short  round, 
For  that  strong  youth  of  hers 
That  hoped  so  much  should  be, 
And  now  is  this — nor  cares — 
Pity  for  her — and  me ! 

I  am  what  she  has  been, 
What  she  is  I  shall  be! 


79 


YOUTH 

WHEN  Life  gives  over  laughter  and  singing 

And  Love's  no  more  in  rhyme, 
And  the  world  goes  dull  in  my  old  ears  ringing 

And  slow  my  feet  with  time; 

Then  my  good  gray  soul  may  go  seeking  and  flying 

On  high  above  roads  on  earth 
When  my  heart  gives  over  laughter  and  crying, 

Passion  and  pain  and  mirth! 

But  now  my  heart  beats  merrily  wild, 

My  feet  would  dance  their  fill, 
And  heaviest  prayers  the  white  saints  piled 

Never  could  keep  them  still — 

When  I  shall  be  old  and  quiet  and  gray 
There's  time  to  be  hushed  and  bow — 

I  may  have  a  soul  in  that  dim  day, 
But  oh,  not  now,  not  now ! 


80 


THE  SINGER 

I  WILL  make  songs  of  lovers  who  have  found  each 

other's  arms, 

Of  love  fulfilled  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  unbe- 
lievably won, 
Of  old  dreams  true  in  the  daytime,  crowned  perfect 

beyond  alarms — 

(Tears  will  keep  to  the  end  of  the  day,  when  all 
songs  are  done.) 

I  will  make  songs  of  laughter,  of  cities  of  mirth  and 

rest, 
That  men  may  pass  and  believe  me,  smiling  as  they 

go  by, 
And  bend  more  blithe  to  their  toiling,  hope-filled  and 

joy-possessed — 

(Grief  can  wait  till  the  folk  have  gone  home  and 
the  echoes  die.) 

I  will  make  songs  of  fulfilment,  of  claspings  in  warmth 

and  light, 
To  hearten  the  folk  who  are  merry,  to  comfort  the 

folk  who  weep, 
Of  joy  beyond  all  lamenting,  of  sunshine  beyond  all 

night — 

(Ah  soon,  ah  soon  may  I  slip  to  the  dark  and  lie 
down  to  sleep ! ) 

81 


THE  DEAD  FRIEND 

A  FRIEND  of  mine  is  dead  at  length  to-day 

(O  sooner  than  I  thought  she  could  have  died!) 

And  I  must  go  the  rest  of  Life's  long  way 
Without  her  at  my  side. 

She  was  so  gay,  so  glad  of  wind  and  sun, 
Of    mirth,    of    love,    all    sweet    earth-things    that 
shine.  .  .  . 

I  scarcely  know  how  living  may  be  done 
Without  this  friend  of  mine : 

Yet  I  must  smile  as  if  the  world  was  fair, 

I  must  not  veil  my  eyes  or  hush  rny  tread.  .  .  . 

One  must  not  grieve,  or  seem  to  know  or  care 
When  only  Youth  is  dead. 


82 


SEARCH 

WHERE  shall  we  find  Thee— where  art  Thou,  O  God? 
For  Thou  hast  taken  away  our  signs  from  us, 
Discredited  the  guides  we  thought  from  Thee, 
And  we  have  only  left  to  show  the  way 
A  voice — the  wavering  voice  that  cries  in  us 
Once  in  a  long,  long  while,  when  soul  and  sense 
Clasp  for  a  moment,  and  Thy  light  shines  through : 
We  can  be  only  sure  of  one  thing  now, 
Our  little  fevered  hearts  that  endlessly 
Toss  up  and  down  upon  the  waves  of  the  world — 
Where  shall  we  find  Thee?    Where  art  Thou,  O  God? 

Where  shall  we  find  Thee?    Where  art  Thou,  O  God? 
Thou  who  perhaps  may  yet  be,  not  now  made, 
Thou  who  perhaps  hast  been  and  art  not  now, 
Thou  whose  last  echoings  across  our  hearts 
Perhaps  may  not  be  known  or  wondered  of 
By  our  young  children — Thou,  our  God  of  old, 
God  of  Forever!     Speak  to  us  again! 
Give  us  some  little  loving  sign  again 
That  we  may  see  Thee  through  the  glass  of  it, 
Come  in  some  kindly  human  shape  we  know ; 
Our  eyes  are  dazzled  now  with  staring  long 
Through  bleak,  bright  lights  unknown,  unhumanized; 
Thy  love  seems  not  for  us,  it  shines  so  high, 
Not  such  as  we  can  dare  exchange  with  Thee! 
Where  can  we  find  Thee?    Where  art  Thou,  O  God? 

83 


84  Search 

When  I  shall  take  away  your  lights  from  you, 
My  little  silver  spinning  coin,  the  moon, 
My  little  burning  beat  of  time,  the  sun, 
And  all  My  life  and  yours  have  passed  beyond 
To  whirling  chains  of  planets  not  yet  more 
Than  Hying  vapors  now — still  I  shall  be 
And  ye  shall  be  with  Me. 


MANET! 

GOD  holds,  God  guides,  God  keeps : 

St.  Francis'  God,  and  Buddha's :  still  the  same 
He  who  made  Plato  as  a  pure  wind  sweeps, 

Paul  as  a  piercing  flame: 

He  is  the  Peace  we  crave, 

He  is  the  Life ;  we  pause  and  breathe  it  not : 
He  is  the  Wonder  of  the  Thought  that  gave 

Life's   radiance  half-forgot: 

The  old  creeds  crash  apart, 

Break  in  our  tired,  entreating  hands,  and  fall : 
God,  the  Encircling  Fire,  the  Eternal  Thought, 

Is  over  all. 


THE  DIVINE  LIE 

LET  me  not  know,  dear  gods ! 

Send  me  your  Lie  divine, 
Firing  to  gold  the  clods, 

Making  the  darkness  shine! 

Who  in  the  lifeless  wind 
Hear  mighty  spirits  bless, 

Shall  follow,  great  of  mind, 
That  call  to  mightiness ; 

Who  seek  as  by  a  star 

Where  mocking  marsh-lights  ride 
Shall  build  men  roadways  far 

Where  none  has  dared  beside ; 

Who  follow,  from  of  old 

Far-riding  on  the  quest, 
The  Lie,  the  Vision  gold, 

Mirage,  white  mercy,  rest, 

Shall  shelter  warm  and  glad 

In  high  dream-palaces, 
Unwise,  mist-blinded,  mad — 

Yet  ah — the  peace  of  these ! 

86 


The  Divine  Lie  87 

O  gods,  yourselves  a  lie, 

Bind  ye  mine  eyes  more  fast — 
Help  me  to  build  on  high 

Your  Lie,  men's  Truth  at  last! 


THE  LAST  KNIGHT 

YOUNG  life  and  laughter  echo  in  the  dawn ; 

All  the  light  winds  lace  sun  rays  through  the  trees 
I  had  been  holding  some  enchanted  lawn 

Or  racing  toward  some  tourney  down  the  breeze, 
Could  I  return  into  the  days  long  gone. 

I  hold  no  fellowship  with  days  like  these 
Since  Arthur  sleepeth  in  Avilion : 
All  of  adventure  and  of  mirth  is  done 
Since  Arthur  sleepeth  in  Avilion. 

Through  the  deep  wood  winds  clear  a  silver  horn.  .  . 

Only  the  note  of  young  King  Constantine, 
Hunting  the  fallow  deer  along  the  morn ; 

Ay,  he  is  brave  and  one  of  Arthur's  line, 
And  yet  he  seeks  not  holy  Cup  or  Thorn; 

Lost  and  forgotten  is  the  Grail's  white  shrine 
Since  Arthur  sleepeth  in  Avilion : 
Of  fay-born  heroes  there  remaineth  none 
Since  Arthur  sleepeth  in  Avilion. 

No  more  the  swift  Lake-Ladies,  passing  by, 
Weave  spells  for  men  they  love;  for  Nimue 

Passed  ere  she  saw  her  lord  King  Pelleas  die, 
And  in  some  mist-hung  woodland  far  away 

Does  Vivien  that  guards  old  Merlin  lie, 
And  here  no  sweet  enchantments  hold  to-day 
88 


The  Last  Knight  89 

Since  Arthur  sleepeth  in  Avilion : 

Spells  are  as  shadows  of  a  last  year's  sun 

Since  Arthur  sleepeth  in  Avilion. 

What  should  I  care  that  Bedivere  is  dead, 
Or  mourn  for  Ector's  death?    I  fain  would  die. 

My  last-left  comrade,  few  morns  buried, 
May  be  more  near  unto  our  king  that  I.  . 

Yet  since  he  passed  so  many  years  have  fled 
That  surely  his  returning  must  be  nigh, 

Surely  he  waketh  in  Avilion! 

What  should  I  do,  whose  heart  of  youth  is  done, 

Though  Arthur  cometh  from  Avilion? 


THE  FOLLOWER 

IN  blood  and  martyr-fire 

My  fathers  fused  their  chain ; 
They  left  to  me  the  soul's  desire, 

The  need  to  seek  again, 
To  break  the  truths  they  held, 

To  see  alone,  and  know, 
Though  night  may  bend  above  the  end 

Of  every  path  I  go. 

My  fathers  sought  and  found — 

They  saw  gold  Heaven  glow 
Beyond  the  fires  that  swept  them  round- 

I  shall  not  find  nor  know; 
Past  reach  of  voice  or  sight 

I  follow  my  soul's  cry, 
That  seeks  some  spark  beyond  that  dark 

Where  coiling  horrors  lie. 

Folk  house  in  their  warm  creeds  ; 

I  follow  shelterless 
My  waking  soul  that  still  must  needs 

Fare  on  through  her  distress ; 
Folk  wonder,  through  their  sleep 

Rebuking  that  I  fare 
In  wind  and  rain  of  doubt  and  pain, 

In  cold  of  long  despair. 
90 


The  Follower  91 

I  may  not  bind  mine  eyes 

With  any  silken  dream; 
I  may  not  pause  for  light  that  lies 

On  earthly  field  or  stream ; 
I  seek  Truth  endlessly, 

Knowing  if  I  should  claim 
Once  the  high  grace  to  see  her  face, 

I  should  not  know  her  name. 


THE  CLOAK  OF  DREAMS 

THEY  bade  me  follow  fleet 

To  my  brothers'  work  and  play, 

But  the  Cloak  of  Dreams  blew  over  my  feet, 
Tangling  them  from  the  way : 

They  bade  me  watch  the  skies 

For  a  signal-dark  or  light, 
But  the  Cloak  of  Dreams  blew  over  my  eyes, 

Shutting  them  fast  from  sight : 

I  have  nor  pain  nor  mirth, 

Suffering  nor  desire — 
The  Cloak  of  Dreams  'twixt  me  and  earth 

Wavers  its  filmy  fire: 

I  dream  in  dusk  apart, 

Hearing  a  strange  bird  sing, 
And  the  Cloak  of  Dreams  blows  over  my  heart, 

Blinding  and  sheltering! 
92 


GIFTS 

GOD  does  not  give  us,  when  our  youth  is  done, 

Any  such  dower  as  we  thought  should  be: 

We  are  not  strong,  not  crowned  with  moon  or  sun ; 

We  are  not  gods  nor  conquerors:  life's  sea 

Has  not  rolled  back  to  let  our  feet  pass  through.  .  .  . 

And  if  one  great  desire,  long-hoped,  came  true — 

Some  gift  long-hungered  for,  some  starry  good, 

Some  crowning  we  desired, 

It  had  lost  all  its  pageant-wonderhood : 

A  wonted  thing,  enveiled  no  more  in  flame, 

Dully  it  came — 

Its  winning  has  not  made  our  feet  less  tired. 

We  are  so  near  the  same 

Our  mirrors  saw  in  youth ! 

Not  very  wise :  in  truth 

Not  nobler  than  we  were  those  years  ago ; 

We  have  to  show 

Only  a  handful  of  such  little  things 

As  our  high-thoughted  youth 

Had  named  of  little  worth. 

Only  ...  the  gift  to  feel 
In  little  looks  of  praise, 
In  words,  in  sunny  days, 
A  pleasantness,  a  mirth — 
93 


94  Gifts 

Joy  in  a  bird's  far  wings, 

Pleasure  in  flowers  breaking  out  of  earth, 

In  a  child's  laughter,  in  a  neighbor's  smile; 

And  in  all  quiet  things 

Peace  for  awhile. 

And  one  more  gift — to  smile,  content  to  see — 
Ay,  to  be  very  glad  seeing — alight  on  high 
The  stars  we  wanted  for  our  jewelry 
Still  clear  ashine  .  .  .  still  in  the  sky. 


GREEK   FOLK-SONGS 


THE  NAKED  FEET 

THE  lizards  scamper  wild 
Below  the  purple  clover — 

I  am  so  young  a  child, 
So  young  I  have  no  lover. 

My  sheep  stray  up  and  down, 

Alone  I  stray  behind — 
Over  the  sea  in  Sardis  town 

Friends  are  not  far  to  find — 

My  feet  go  bare  in  sun, 
Go  bare  in  dust  and  cold — 

Over  the  hills  in  Babylon 
Shoes  are  of  silk  and  gold — 

A  flute  calls  clear  and  wild 

Where  the  green  hills  curve  over- 
Am  I  too  young  a  child, 
Too  young  to  have  a  lover  ? 


97 


IN  THE  DARK 


IN  the  dark  my  mother  wakes  me 

Sighing,  "  Ah,  my  heart  will  grieve 
When  my  little  one  forsakes  me !  " 

In  the  light  my  locks  she  dresses, 

Sighing,  stoops  in  braids  to  weave 
All  my  purple-flowing  tresses: 


And  when  moon-rays  shine  most  brightly 

Then  she  winds  my  girdlestead, 
Sighing  as  she  ties  it  tightly — 

In  the  dark  my  mother's  weeping 

For  the  time  when  I  shall  wed — 
Ah !  the  time  so  slow  in  creeping ! 


98 


MOON  WITH  EYES  OF  BLUE 

(SEPARATION) 

OH  moon  with  eyes  of  blue, 
Say  if  my  love  be  true! 
Oh  moon  with  eyes  of  blue, 
Watcher  of  happy  lovers! 

At  night  the  willows  flow 
Like  the  dark  hair  I  know, 
And  all  the  winds  that  blow 
Whisper  of  happy  lovers : 

Along  the  opal  stream 
Silver  the  lilies  gleam, 
And  women  stray  and  dream 
Waiting  to  greet  their  lovers: 

I  only  crouch  afar 
Where  the  black  branches  are, 
And  hide  from  moon  and  star 
Shining  on  happy  lovers.  .  .  . 

Oh  moon  with  eyes  of  blue, 
Grant  that  my  love  be  true! 
Oh  moon  with  eyes  of  blue, 
Guardian  of  parted  lovers! 
99 


SONG:  SHADOW  OF  THE  WOODLAND 

SHADOW  of  the  woodland,  have  you  seen  my  sweet- 
heart 
Slipping  through  your  sleepy  leaves  before  the  break 

of  day? 

She  had  brown  hair  flowing  and  a  green  gown  blowing 

And  eyes  ever  backward  as  she  went  upon  her  way. 

"  I   have  seen  your  sweetheart  ere  the   red   dawn's 

breaking, 
Like  a  slim  bird  of  silence  she  fled  down  'along 

my  track 

Past  my  dawn-birds'  calling  to  the  river's  falling, 
But  she  went  on  swiftly,  and  she  looked  not  back." 

Ripple  of  the  river,  have  you  seen  my  sweetheart, 

Wading  in  your  sleepy  sedges  ere  the  sun  was  high  ? 
Does  she  wait  me,  hiding  where  your  reeds  are  riding, 

Laughing  at  my  wonderment  as  I  go  seeking  by  ? 
"  I  have  seen  your  sweetheart  at  the  bright  sun's  rising, 
But  she  paused  not  a  moment  where  my  brown  reeds 

sway, 

And  my  buds  are  broken  for  her  passing's  token 
Where  she  hastened  singing  toward  the  king's  high- 
way." 

too 


Song:  Shadow  of  the  Woodland        101 

Winding  of  the  highway,  have  you  seen  my  sweetheart 
Running  down  your  golden  ribbon  while  the  sun 

was  strong, 

Does  she  linger,  turning  in  the  hot  sun's  burning, 
And  pause  to  wait  my  coming  when  the  way  seems 

long? 

"  I  have  seen  your  sweetheart  in  the  hot  sun's  shining, 
But  she  paused  not  to  hear  your  step  or  wait  your 

welcoming, 

And  she  left  my  paving  at  the  gold  flags'  waving, 
And  her  fleet  feet  bore  her  to  the  palace  of  the 
king." 

Portal  of  the  palace,  have  you  seen  my  sweetheart, 
Withered  weeds  about  her  hair  and  dust  along  her 

gown, 

Was  she  frightened,  flying  at  the  daylight's  dying, 
My   little   weary  country  maid   astray   within   the 

town? 

"  Ay,  I  saw  your  sweetheart  at  the  even's  falling, 
But  she  walked  not  in  weariness  nor  fled  along  in 

haste, 
For  her  breast-lace  was  golden  and  her  hair  jewel- 

holden, 

And  the  King's  arms  were  girdlestead  round  about 
her  waist ! " 


RAIN  IN  THE  MORNING 

(LONELINESS) 

THE  night  drags  by ;  how  far  the  stars  away ! 
How  far  from  me  love's  warm,  forgetful  day ! 
Long  past  the  shore  where  in  wind  and  rain  I  wander 
Laughing  they  have  vanished,  happy  lovers  hand-in- 

hand — 

I  all  alone  in  the  rain  of  the  morning 
Write  my  songs  upon  the  sand. 

The  year  goes  by ;  how  swift  my  beauty  goes ! 
How  fast  they  fall,  the  petals  of  the  rose ! 
Long  since  the  one  whom  I  loved  has  all- forgotten, 
Leaning  down  to  other  lips  or  laid  in  earth  asleep: 
I  all  alone  in  the  rain  of  the  morning 
Make  of  him  my  songs  and  weep. 

The  wet  leaves  bow  with  falling  rills  of  rain, 
The  water  trails  its  furrows  on  the  plain: 
Long  past  this  little  life  I  bear  my  songs  shall  echo, 
Laughing  they  shall  sing  them,  happy  lovers  hand-in- 

hand — 

I  here  at  peace  in  the  rain  in  the  morning 
Write  my  songs  upon  the  sand. 


102 


NOT  UNTO  THE  FOREST 

(REMEMBRANCE) 

NOT  unto  the  forest — not  unto  the  forest,  O  my  lover ! 

Why  do  you  lead  me  to  the  forest? 
Joy  is  where  the  temples  are 
Lines  of  dancers  swinging  far 

Drums  and  lyres  and  viols  in  the  town 

(It  is  dark  in  the  forest) 
And  the  flapping  leaves  will  blind  me 
And  the  clinging  vines  will  bind  me 

And  the  thorny  rose-boughs  tear  my  saffron  gown — 

And  I  fear  the  forest. 

Not  unto  the  forest — not  unto  the  forest,  O  my  lover! 

Long  since  one  led  me  to  the  forest.  .  .  . 
Hand  in  hand  we  wandered  mute 
Where  was  neither  lyre  nor  flute 

Little  stars  were  bright  above  the  dusk 
And  the  thickets  of  wild  rose 
Breathed  across  our  lips  locked  close 

Perfumings  of  spikenard  and  musk.  .  .  . 

I  am  tired  of  the  forest. 

Not  unto  the  forest — not  unto  the  forest,  O  my  lover ! 

Take  me  from  the  silence  of  the  forest ! 
I  will  love  you  by  the  light 
And  the  beat  of  drums  at  night 

103 


104  Not  Unto  the  Forest 

And  the  echoing  of  laughter  in  my  ears, 

But  here  in  the  forest 
I  am  still,  remembering 
A  forgotten,  useless  thing, 
And   my   eyelids    are    locked    down    for    fear   of 

tears.  .  .  . 
There  is  memory  in  the  forest. 


CRADLE  SONG 

(MOTHERHOOD) 

SLEEP,  I  have  sent  to  Sardis  for  thy  toys 
And  for  thy  silken  robes  to  Babylon, 

Sleep,  I  will  give  thee  all  the  gold  world's  joys, 
Thou  shalt  be  daughter  to  the  eastern  sun. 

Sleep,  lest  he  call  thee  ere  thy  rest  is  done 
Lifting  his  golden  rose  from  sea  and  shore, 

Back  to  the  water  I  will  sell  the  sun, 
Slave  in  the  eastern  deep  forevermore. 

Sleep,  all  the  boughs  that  wave  above  thy  head 
They  shall  be  palace-walls  to  shelter  thee : 

Sleep,  all  the  moss  shall  be  a  cushion  spread 
Made  all  of  velvet  for  thy  tapestry. 

Sleep :  who  one  day  shalt  know  as  I  have  known 
How  feels  a  woman's  heart  within  thy  breast, 

Wilt  thou  have  earth  and  all  its  joys  star-sown, 
Or  the  white  gods,  to  give  thee  better  rest? 


10$ 


A  CYPRIAN  WOMAN 

UNDER  dusky  laurel  leaf, 

Scarlet  leaf  of  rose, 
I  lie  prone,  who  have  known 

All  a  woman  knows — 

Love  and  grief  and  motherhood, 
Fame  and  mirth  and  scorn; 

These  are  all  shall  befall 
Any  woman  born. 

Jewel-laden  are  my  hands, 

Tall  my  stone  above; 
Do  not  weep  that  I  sleep 

Who  was  wise  in  love : 

Where  I  walk  a  shadow  gray 
Through  gray  asphodel, 

I  am  glad,  who  have  had 
All  that  Life  could  tell. 


106 


LOVE   SONGS 


CHANGED 

THESE  are  the  woods  where  my  heart  held  fast 
Shadow -green  silence  and  lonely  grace; 

Now  they  are  only  a  way  you  passed, 
Leaving  an  empty  place; 

These  are  my  sea-birds  that  circled  wide, 

Bearing  my  thoughts  from  the  dust  of  things — 

Only  the  wish  to  be  by  your  side 
Lifts  on  their  lagging  wings ; 

This  is  my  world  that  was  once  so  sweet, 

All  of  itself  in  the  morning  dew, 
Now  it  is  only  a  road  for  your  feet, 

A  sheltering-place  for  you ! 


109 


AN  ENDING 

WE  fear  each  other  too  much  for  lovers, 
We  love  each  other  too  much  for  friends — 

This  is  a  known  thing  the  heart  discovers : 
Surely  an  old  tale  ends ! 

Was  yours  the  sin  by  the  sunken  sea, 

Beneath  dead  stars  of  that  old  strange  sky. 

Or  in  some  far  life  will  you  pardon  me 
For  wrongs  of  that  life  gone  by? 


no 


THOUGHT  OF  YOU 

Is  there  nowhere  left  a  spot 
Where  the  thought  of  you  is  not? 
I  have  sought  it  everywhere, 
Woods  and  waters,  field  and  air — 

Water  infinitely  blue, 

Where  the  sunlight  echoes  through, 

Only  brings  the  memory  after 

Of  your  eyes  that  hide  sweet  laughter: 

In  the  poignant  flutes,  and  thin 
Tense  sweets  of  the  violin 
Thrills  the  thought  of  you,  along 
All  the  passion  of  the  song : 

I  have  tried  to  think  on  Heaven, 
White-clad  angels,  souls  forgiven — 
What  are  all  such  holy  things? 
Only  thoughts  of  you — with  wings ! 


in 


IF  YOU  SHOULD  TIRE  OF  LOVING  ME 

IF  you  should  tire  of  loving  me 

Some  one  of  our  far  days, 
Oh,  never  start  to  hide  your  heart 

Or  cover  thought  with  praise. 

For  every  word  you  would  not  say 
Be  sure  my  heart  has  heard, 

So  go  from  me  all  silently 
Without  a  kiss  or  word; 

For  God  must  give  you  happiness.  .  .  . 

And  oh,  it  may  befall 
In  listening  long  to  Heaven-song 

I  may  not  care  at  all ! 


SIEGE 

You,  whom  my  love  encompasses  about, 
Shutting  you  close,  around  you  like  a  wall, 

How  can  you  pass  unheeding  in  and  out, 
Not  knowing  it  at  all  ? 

You,  against  whom  my  love  throbs  like  the  sea, 
Steadily,  fierce,  unceasing  in  its  beat, 

How  can  you  let  it  pulse  unknowingly, 
Nor  feel  it  at  your  feet  ? 

You,  upon  whom  my  heart  feeds  like  a  flame, 
Circling  you  round,  secluding  you  apart.  .  . 

Surely  one  day  the  fires  that  kiss  your  name 
Shall  burn  into  your  heart! 


113 


A  GIRL'S  LOVE  SONG 

I  WENT  through  the  woodland 
And  down  the  wet  dew — 

All  of  the  woodland 
Was  tangled  with  you. 

A  little  bird  whistled 

Notes  water-clear,  free — 

"  That  was  the  bird-note 
He  hearkened  with  me — " 

The  berry-vines  threw  me 
Their  scarlet  and  brown — 

"  Those  were  the  briars 
He  stripped  from  my  gown — " 

The  trees  bent  to  give  me 

Their  solitude  vast — 
"  Those  were  the  branches 

He  brushed  as  he  passed — " 

I  fled  the  green  woodland, 
I  passed  the  wet  dew — 

'All  of  the  wide  world 
Is  tangled  with  you! 


TRIUMPH 

You  broke  my  heart  when  I  was  young, 
Caressing  eyes  and  mocking  tongue, 
Till  my  young  nights  of  suffering 
I  sought  to  soothe,  with  visioning 
Some  triumph-hour  when  I  should  come 
With  flaunting  fame  of  flag  and  drum 
To  mock  your  heart,  that  would  not  yield 
Once  in  our  wind-blown  daisy-field : 
So  you  should  shade  your  eyes,  and  sigh 
(Hearing  the  fame  of  me  go  by) 
"  This  is  that  love  I  would  not  keep ! " 
And  close  your  door,  and  run  to  weep. 

But  now  that  mine  old  dream  is  true 
I  have  no  will  to  mock  at  you, 
For  very  good  that  old  day  seems 
When  I  could  feel  such  flaming  dreams 
And  bear  a  hea*t  so  wild,  and  seize 
Such  glories  from  such  agonies: 
(For  in  this  world  where  now  I  wake 
Men  do  not  deal  in  hearts  that  break).  .  . 
And  if  I  turned  to  seek  you  still 
How  should  I  tell  which  low  green  hill 
Holds  you  enfortressed,  deaf  and  blind 
To  horn  or  banner  on  the  wind? 
"5 


I  CAN  GO  TO  LOVE  AGAIN 

Now  that  you  are  gone,  loving  hands,  loving  lips, 

Now  I  can  go  back  to  Love : 
I  can  free  my  soul  that  was  kissed  to  eclipse, 

I  can  fling  my  thoughts  above, 
I  can  run  and  stand  in  the  wind,  on  the  hill, 

Now  that  I  am  lone  and  free — 
Whistle  through  the  dusk  and  the  cleansing  chill 

All  my  red-winged  dreams  to  me. 

I  had  dreamed  of  Love  like  a  wind,  like  a  flame, 

I  had  watched  for  Love  a  star : 

That  was  never  Love  that  you  brought  when  you 
came, 

Silver  chain  and  golden  bar! 
I  was  swathed  with  Love  like  a  veil,  like  a  cloak, 

I  was  bound  with  Love  a  shroud.  .  .  . 
All  my  red-winged  dreams  flew  away  when  you  spoke, 

Dreams  I  dared  not  call  aloud! 

They  are  waiting  still  in  the  hush,  in  the  light, 

Morning-wind  and  leaves  and  dew, 
Whisper  of  the  grass,  of  the  waves,  of  the  night, 

Things  I  gave  away  for  you — 
I  can  speed  my  soul  to  its  old  wonderlands, 

Free  my  wild  heart's  wings  from  chain — 
Now  that  you  are  gone,  loving  lips,  loving  hands, 

I  can  go  to  Love  again ! 

116 


AT  THE  GAME'S  END 

THE  fire  and  reality  of  thought 

That  burned  across  my  brain 
Made  me  play  more  intensely  than  I  ought 

Had  I  wished  to  gain. 

It  is  all  of  it  very  long  ago, 

And  I  am  very  tired,  .  .  . 
But  I  gave — or  I  recollect  it  so — 

More  than  she  desired. 

But  all  of  my  nights  are  cool  again, 

My  days  pass  stilly  by: 
There  is  only  a  little  piercing  pain 

When  our  sea-birds  cry. 


"7 


THE  ETERNAL  BURIAL 

POOR  little  rose-flushed  Juliet  is  dead, 

The  child  First  Love — and  dead  upon  her  tomb 

Lies  sun-bright  Youth,  who,  seeking  through  the 

gloom 

Where  the  flamed  Hopes  had  darkened,  found  her  bed. 
Old  doting  World's  Morality  hath  said 

Her  last  shrill  words  within  the  narrow  room ; 

No  more  the  Friar  Conscience  speaks  a  doom 
Or  is  to  brief  and  sad  relentings  led : 
For  Youth  and  First  Love  may  not  wakened  be 

Where  they  lie  locked  and  lifeless  all  alone, 
Nor  care  that  where  their  certainties  pulsed  wild 

World's  Wisdom  and  World's  Passions  hopelessly 
Clasp  hands  above  the  new-raised  burial-stone, 

And  pace  down  Life's  tired  pageant,  reconciled. 


118 


SONG 

THE  Spring  will  come  when  the  year  turns, 

As  if  no  Winter  had  been, 
But  what  shall  I  do  with  a  locked  heart 

That  lets  no  new  year  in? 

The  birds  will  go  when  the  Fall  goes, 
The  leaves  will  fade  in  the  field, 

But  what  shall  I  do  with  an  old  love 
Will  neither  die  nor  yield? 

Oh !  youth  will  turn  as  the  world  turns, 
And  dim  grow  laughter  and  pain, 

But  how  shall  I  hide  from  an  old  dream 
I  never  may  dream  again  ? 


119 


SONG 

GOING  down  the  old  way 
When  the  day's  through, 

If  I  met  my  old  love 
What  should  I  do? 

Greet  him  with  a  light  word, 

Pass  with  a  sigh? 
Give  pain  for  pain  he  gave 

In  times  gone  by  ? 

Nay — laugh  for  happiness, 

Cling  and  forget 
How  he  left  my  heart  sore 

And  my  eyes  wet! 


120 


THE  GIFT 

I  THOUGHT  I  had  forgotten  you, 
My  old  kind  sweetheart,  with  the  true 
Hurt  eyes  I  saw  unchangingly 
Till  time  had  built  a  peace  for  me. 

But  some  one  said,  and  sighed,  last  night, 
Some  little  foolish  thing  and  light 
That  you  were  used  to  say,  and  sigh, 
When  all  the  world  was  you  and  I : 

And  my  smooth,  vacant  peace  was  gone 
Like  a  sea-mist  winds  blow  upon.  .  .  . 
Your  true  grieved  eyes  unchangingly 
Watch  the  tormented  soul  of  me. 

The  sharp  repentances  of  old, 

That  I  was  freed  from,  clutch  and  hold, 

Yet  all  my  being  cries  again — 

"  Thank  God!    Thank  God  for  the  old  pain! " 


121 


THE  PERFECT  LOVER 

(ROBERT  BROWNING,  1812-1882) 

THERE  have  been  weavers  of  song  since  the  youth  of 
the  world  was  over: 

This  was  a  singer,  and  strong — and  this  was  the  Per- 
fect Lover! 

The  world  has  said  in  its  need  since  the  work  of  the 

world  began, 
"  Fair  is  the  song  to  heed,  so  what  may  we  ask  of  the 

man? 
Praise  for  the  song  like  flame — what  matter  the  folk 

that  sing? 
Let  them  hold  Duty  a  shame  and  Honor  a  foolish 

thing ! 
Words  in  a  noble  flood — and  if  hearts  shall  be  crushed 

beneath, 
There  must  be  drops  of  blood  for  the  gems  of  the 

laurel-wreath." 

But  this  man  stood  to  his  word;  his  life  to  his  lyre 

rang  true ; 
He  held  by  his  truths  men  heard — the  honor  he  praised 

he  knew ; 

122 


The  Perfect  Lover  123 

And  where  his  torch  burned  high,  with  a  steady,  joyous 

spark, 
He  heard  a  wonderful  cry  that  sang  and  sobbed  in 

the  dark. 
His  strong  hands  stretched  to  the  shade  and  lifted  the 

white  soul  free, 

Close  by  him,  unafraid,  still  chanting  more  perfectly: 
Down  through  her  years  till  night  still  held  they  the 

great  dream  higher, 
Clear  to  the  sad  world's  sight,  a  pulsing  of  star-white 

fire. 

Aye,  through  his  years  alone  of  playing  his  brave 

world-part 

Ever  the  star-fire  shone  as  vestal-clear  in  his  heart ; 
Changeless  his  faith  and  brave,  and  spaceless  his  steady 

sight, 
Watching  across  her  grave  to  a  tryst  in  the  unknown 

Light.  .  .  . 

Loyal  comrade  and  guide,  most  noble  poet  and  friend, 
Yet  beyond  all  beside  true  lover  and  knight  to  the  end ! 

They  shall  weave  song  who  can  till  the  work  of  the 
world  is  over: 

But  this  was  Singer — and  Man — and  this  was  the  Per- 
fect Lover! 


CARNATIONS 

CARNATIONS  and  my  first  love!    And  he  was  seven- 
teen, 

And  I  was  only  twelve  years — a  stately  gulf  between ! 
I  broke  them  on  the  morning  the  school-dance  was 

to  be, 
To  pin  among  my  ribbons  in  hopes  that  he  might 

see.  .  .  . 
And  all  the  girls  stood  breathless  to  watch  as  he  came 

through 
With  curly  crest  and  grand  air  that  swept  the  heart 

from  you ! 
And  why  he  paused  at  my  side  is  more  than  I  can 

know — 

Shyest  of  the  small  girls  who  all  adored  him  so — 
I  said  it  with  my  prayer-times:  I  walked  with  head 

held  high : 
"  Carnations  are  your  flower! "  he  said  as  he  strode  by. 

Carnations  and  my  first  love!    The  years  are  passed 

a  score, 
And  I  recall  his  first  name,  and  scarce  an  eyelash 

more.  .  .  . 
And  those  were  all  the  love-words  that  either  of  us 

said — 

Perhaps  he  may  be  married — perhaps  he  may  be  dead. 

124 


Carnations  125 

And  yet.  ...    To  smell  carnations,  their  spicy,  heavy 

sweet, 

Perfuming  all  some  sick-room,  or  passing  on  the  street, 
Then  .  .  .  still  the  school-lamps  flicker,  and  still  the 

Lancers  play, 
And  still  the  girls  hold  breathless  to  watch  him  go  his 

way, 
And    still    my    child-heart    quivers    with    that    first 

ecstasy — 
"  Carnations  are  your  flower! "  my  first  love  says  to 

me! 


THE   BORDER  COUNTRY 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GHOSTS 

THE  House  of  Ghosts  was  bright  within, 

Aglow  and  warm  and  gay, 
A  place  my  own  once  loved  me  in, 

That  is  not  there  by  day: 

My  hound  lay  drowsing  on  the  floor: 
From  sunken  graves  returned 

My  folk  that  I  was  lonely  for 
Sat  where  the  hearth-fire  burned. 

There  was  no  lightest  echo  lost 

When  I  undid  the  door, 
There  was  no  shadow  where  I  crossed 

The  well-remembered  floor. 

I  bent  to  whisper  to  my  hound 
( So  long  he  had  been  dead ! ) 

He  slept  no  lighter  nor  more  sound, 
He  did  not  lift  his  head. 

I  brushed  my  father  as  I  came ; 

He  did  not  move  or  see — 
I  cried  upon  my  mother's  name ; 

She  did  not  look  at  me. 
129 


130  The  House  of  Ghosts 

Their  faces  in  the  firelight  bent, 
They  smiled  in  speaking  slow 

Of  some  old  gracious  merriment 
Forgotten  years  ago. 

I  was  so  changed  since  they  had  died ! 

How  could  they  know  or  guess 
A  voice  that  plead  for  love,  and  cried 

Of  grief  and  loneliness? 

Out  from  the  House  of  Ghosts  I  fled 
Lest  I  should  turn  and  see 

The  child  I  had  been  lift  her  head 
And  stare  aghast  at  me ! 


THE  OLD  SOUL 

PURE  and  bewildered  spirit,  what  do  you  here  to-day? 
Yours  was  a  simpler  country,  a  time  more  far  away. 

Where  the  old  gods  were  shattered  there  you  upraised 

your  Lord 
Stark  on  His  cross  a  buckler  betwixt  red  sword  and 

sword, 

Where  your  strong  abbeys  towered  and  your  wide 

harvests  smiled 
You  kept  the  ward  for  Heaven,  an  outpost  in  the  wild : 

On  those  long-perished  uplands  your  sandaled  foot- 
steps trod, 

You  knew  of  seed  and  harvest,  of  fire  and  sword  and 
God: 

You   have   known   prayer   and   battle,   bondage   and 

sovereignties, 
But  not  this  life's  impassioned  and  sad  complexities. 

Though  where  your  meadows  rippled  and  swung  their 

heavy  grain 
The  twisted  paven  roadways  a  thousand  years  have 

lain, 

131 


132  The  Old  Soul 

Yet  here,  where  no  god  conquers,  where  no  firm  foot- 
steps stand, 

Your  eyes  seek  that  lost  Saviour  and  that  old  Father- 
land. 

Where  the  old  saints  stand  singing,  there  does  your 

soul  belong, 
In  Christ's  fair  jeweled  Heaven  of  ecstasy  and  song, 

Or  slaying  with  great  laughter  down  the  red  endless 

morn 
In  the  old  wild  Valhalla  of  your  strong  gods  forsworn ; 

But  you  stand  here,  a  stranger,  'mid  souls  you  cannot 

know. 
Meshed  in  their  thoughts,  and  'wildered  with  many 

paths  to  go.  .  .  . 

What  net  of  sense  ensnared  you  from  your  hard  purity 
And  set  you  lost  and  seeking  down  this  sad  century? 

Surely  for  that  dim  sinning  this  exile  must  atone ! 
Rise,  white  and  wandered  spirit!    Return  unto  thine 
own! 


THE  LOST  FRIEND 

I  WISH  there  could  have  been, 
Strong,  loyal,  innocent, 
For  one  short  hour  alone, 
The  You  I  dreamed  to  be : 
High  watch  on  things  unseen, 
Grave  honor,  pure  intent — 
Where  is  the  white  soul  flown 
Who  gave  all  these  to  me  ? 

I  would  have  made  a  grave 
For  that  immortal  hour, 
For  that  immortal  friend 
Still  through  the  long  years  mine ; 
Purple  arid  gold  should  wave 
Thought-flower,  passion-flower, 
Above  it,  to  the  end 
Comforting-place  and  shrine. 

But  where  that  image  stood 
Oh,  there  was  never  you ! 
(My  heart,  whence  it  is  gone 
Knows  a  tired,  empty  pain) 
You  were  a  dream,  a  mood, 
Dim,  wavering,  untrue, 
A  ghost  that  passed  at  dawn 
And  will  not  come  again, 
133 


THE  WONDERFUL  COUNTRY 

I  WISH  that  I  might  turn  back 
On  the  Wonderful  Country's  track 
Where  all  o'  the  folk  were  wonder-wise 
And  all  o'  the  world  was  new,  .  .  . 
Where  apple-trees  swept  the  moon 
And  long  as  a  year  was  June 
And  just  beyond  the  yellow  road's  rise 
Anything  might  come  true! 

Your  little  red  gate  swung  free 

From  Home  to  the  Endless  Lands 

Where  you  always  could  find  a  Dream  a-rhyme 

In  azure  or  gold  or  blue, 

Where  the  Lady  that  You  Would  Be 

Stood  waving  her  gold-ringed  hands 

From  out  afar  in  that  gracious  time 

Where  everything  waited  you ! 

Where  any  thrilled  hour  might  show, 

Dim-framed  in  the  river-glass, 

Shivering  gleam  of  silver  mail, 

(Lids  half-low  in  the  wood!) 

Spear  upon  spear  arow, 

As  swift  as  a  shadow  pass 

The  glimmering  Knights  of  the  Holy  Grail, 

Come  succoring  Robin  Hood ! 

134 


The  Wonderful  Country  135 

(Robin  Hood?  ...  He  was  gone 
Just  only  a  moment  past ! 
Still  you  could  hear  the  dreaming  horn 
From  over  a  neighbor's  hill; 
Out  from  the  Sherwood-lawn 
Afar  and  more  sweet  the  blast 
Over  the  towers  of  Lincoln  borne, 
Whispering  silver-still!) 


Then  was  an  easy  way 

Through  the  reddening  gates  of  Day : 

To  the  golden  house  of  the  Sun  and  Moon 

Was  only  an  hour  or  so, 

Where  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  sat  lone 

Great  lords  on  their  turquoise  throne, 

And  swift  for  the  sake  of  a  song  you  spun 

Would  tell  you  the  way  to  go: 

Where  the  curtseying  Stars  bent  fair, 
And  each  from  her  silver  chair 
('Twas  all  for  the  love  of  a  tale  you  told 
Or  a  little  earth-gift  you  gave) 
Would  give  to  you  brazen  shoon 
And  counseling  birds  of  gold 
And  even  the  Ivory  Key  for  boon, 
That  opened  the  Crystal  Cave.  .  .  . 

(There  was  only  enchanted  water 
To  cross,  and  the  Witch's  Daughter 


136  The  Wonderful  Country 

To  bribe  with  the  golden  egg  o'  the  Sun 
And  silver  nuts  o'  the  Moon : 
And  a  little  old  song  to  sing 
And  a  tear — and  your  toiling  done 
And  wide  awake  the  Enchanted  King 
And  the  sorrowing  over  soon).  .  .  . 

For  any  strange  land  to  find 

By  magical  night  or  noon 

You  had  only  to  leap  on  the  Red  Fox's  back 

And  be  over  the  green  hill's  brow 

More  fast  than  the  whistling  wind.  .  .  . 

Ohf  I  wish  I  could  follow  the  track 

That  leads  by  way  of  the  Sun  or  the  Moon 

To  the  Wonderful  Country  now! 


RECOMPENSE 

O  WHAT  is  the  gold  wreath  winding  fair 

Just  beyond  Heaven-Gate? 
"  That  is  a  wreath  of  days  you  wove 

In  an  earth-life  late." 

O  what  is  the  silver  -flower  that  shines 
Making  all  Heaven  more  sweet  f 

"  That  is  the  day  when  you  laid  your  joys 
At  another's  feet." 

0  what  is  the  heartsease  gleaming  brave, 

Purple  and  white  and  gold? 
"  The  day  when  you  laid  your  heart's  desire 

In  another's  hold." 

And  what  is  the  great  red  rose  that  burns 

Brighter  than  all  beside? 
"  That  is  the  day  when  they  broke  your  heart, 

And  your  warm  youth  died." 

But  why  do  you  sigh  at  Heaven-Gate, 

Spirit  enthroned,  forgiven  ? 
"  There  is  no  fairer  wreath  than  this 

In  the  fields  of  Heaven!" 


137 


13  8  Recompense 

Ay,  the  wreath  is  fair  for  a  saint  to  wear 
Through  Heaven  in  joyful  wise.  .  .  . 

Yet,  oh  to  have  had  one  leaf  on  earth 
From  my  Paradise ! 


THE  ESTRAY 

I  HAVE  seen  many  things ; 
My  soul  is  an  old  soul  now ; 
My  soul  is  tired. 

Rulers  of  Life  and  Death, 

I  have  lived  many  lives; 

I  should  be  fast  asleep 

Where  my  old  gods  dream  white 

With  the  souls  I  knew. 

Rulers  of  Life  and  Death, 
What  did  my  tired  soul  do, 
Back  in  those  friended  times 
When  I  was  with  my  own, 
That  it  must  come  again 
Here  where  no  friend-soul  is? 

For  I  have  had  dreams; 
Hushing,  remembering.  .  .  . 
Faces  I  knew, 
That  left  me,  wakened. 

Rulers  of  Life  and  Death, 
I  have  atoned  for  all, 
All  the  forgotten  sins, 
All  of  that  long-dead  wrong, 
139 


140  The  Estray 

Here  in  the  loneliness, 
In  the  stranger-ways.  .  .  , 

Rulers  of  Life  and  Death, 
Let  me  go  sleep ! 


THERE  IS  NOTHING  DEAD 

THEY  say  that  the  child  is  dead : 

It  seems  so  strange  to  say, 

Though  her  mother  has  knelt  and  cried 

Where  a  Something  white  has  slept 

In  a  coffin  all  to-day.  .  .  . 

And  here  in  the  ordered  gloom 

Of  the  heavy-scented  room 

We  have  all  of  us  looked  and  wept.  .  .  . 

But  just  as  the  dark  day  cleared 

An  instant  at  sunsetting 

And  the  wind  blew  fresh  and  wet 

From  the  rose-gold-rifted  sky 

We  heard  a  strange  bird  sing : 

Out  on  the  lawn,  leaf -piled, 

Thrillingly  sweet  we  heard 

Rapturous,  ceaseless,  wild, 

A  voice  .  .  .  like  the  yellow  bird 

She  mourned  when  last  June  was  through 

And  we  rose  up  languidly 
From  our  grief  in  the  dark,  to  see 
What  bird  could  sing  so  late 
At  our  sorrow's  very  gate ! 

Over  the  withered  leaves 
The  child  ran  flashingly, 
141 


142  There  is  Nothing  Dead 

Laughing  with  living  eyes 

Under  her  flying  hair : 

And  we  heard  her  voice.     She  said : 

"  There  is  nothing  dead! " 

And  forgotten  butterflies 

Of  an  old  June  gleamed  and  swung, 

Wheeling  about  her  hair.  .  .  . 

And  the  dead  bird  sang  on  her  hand 

(Only  he  was  not  dead) 

And  the  dry  brown  leaves  flashed  green 

Under  her  brushing  tread 

An  instant  .  .  .  but  we  had  seen.  .  .  . 

She  was  gone — or  our  eyes  were  blind — 

Only  ...  far  off  ...  there  cried 

Bird-song  along  the  wind 

For  a  quivering  instant  more.  .  .  . 

And  the  sound  from  out  the  door 
Of  her  mother's  sobbing  crept, 
For  the  Something  white,  that  lay 
In  its  coffin  all  to-day — 
"  She  is  dead !     She  is  dead !  "  it  wept.  . 
But  it  seemed  so  strange  to  say ! 


THE  FORGOTTEN  SOUL 

TWAS  I  that  cried  against  the  pane  on  All  Souls' 

Night — 
(O  pulse  o'  my  heart's  life,  how  could  you  never 

hear?) 

You  filled  the  room  I  knew  with  yellow  candle-light 
And  cheered  the  lass  beside  you  when  she  prayed  in 
fear. 

'Twas  I  that  touched  your  shoulder  in  the  gray  wood- 
mist — 
(O  core  o'  my  heart's  heart,  how  could  you  never 

know  ?) 
You  only  frowned  and  shuddered  as  you  bent  and 

kissed 
The  lass  hard  by  you,  handfast,  where  I  used  to  go. 

'Twas  I  that  stood  to  greet  you  on  the  churchyard 

pave — 
(O  fire  o'  my  heart's  grief,  how  could  you  never 

see?) 
You  smiled  in  pleasant  dreaming  as  you  crossed  my 

grave, 

And  crooned  a  little  love-song  where  they  buried 
me! 


THE  FORGETFUL  PEOPLE 

I  AM  sick  with  the  sorrows  and  the  long  complainings 

And  the  small  fierce  joys  between; 
I  will  go  to  the  place  of  the  Forgetful  People 

And  make  my  tired  heart  clean. 

There's  no  hand  of  heaviness  the  heart  is  knowing, 

Where  shadow-glimmering 
The  careless  feet  of  the  Forgetful  People 

Fall  ever  in  a  ring ; 

I  shall  not  know  what  mournfulness  the  winds  are 
crying 

To-night  when  dusk-winds  rise; 
For  the  sleepy  veils  of  the  Forgetful  People 

Will  blow  across  my  eyes ; 

My  sorrows  shall  not  dash  me  like  a  wave  returning, 

With  the  sick  morrow's  morn — 
There's  no  hope  or  grief  with  the  Forgetful  People, 

Nor  any  love  nor  scorn. 

I  shall  wander  and  laugh  alone  in  empty  places 

And  watch  on  the  wet  ground 
The  silent  wind  of  the  Forgetful  People 

Whirling  the  brown  leaves  round; 
144 


The  Forgetful  People  145 

And  I  shall  feel  no  pain  of  all  my  wild  heart's  crying, 

Nor  hurt  of  memory; 
For  the  stealing  hands  of  the  Forgetful  People 

Will  take  my  past  from  me. 


JEANNE  D'ARC  AT  RHEIMS 

GOD  and  Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Catherine, 
Saint  Raphael  and  white  Saint  Margaret, 
They  are  great  Heaven-folk,  and  do  not  come 
From  their  clean  golden  thrones  to  this  soiled  earth 
For  any  little  thing.     They  came  to  me. 
Ah,  once  indeed  they  came — and  France  is  freed.  .  .  . 
I  wish  that  I  were  freed,  and  spinning  now 
Beside  my  mother  in  the  door  at  home. 

I  thought  I  might  go  home  again  and  spin 
When  I  had  done  the  task  they  set  for  me, 
The  great  white  saints  and  angels,  with  their  robes 
That  shone  like  skies  and  water  in  the  sun, 
And  heavy  jeweled  aureoles  that  swung 
Behind  their  hair.  .  .  .  There  is  a  little  place, 
A  smooth  brown  ground  to  dance  a  distaff  on, 
Locked  round  by  trees,  hid  thick  from  eyes  that  pass ; 
A  still  green  sunny  corner  far  away 
From  crownings  and  from  cities  and  from  praise. 
Far  too  from  my  old  Oak  still  memoried 
With  cryings  and  with  cryings  out  at  dark.  .  .  . 
Not  Angels'  voices — Angels  send  you  forth 
On  long,  long  roads,  to  spur  unwilling  folk 
Who  mock  or  worship,  but  are  never  friends, 
Yet  Angels  speak  you  graciously,  like  Lords. 
They  would  not  be  there  now,  nor  anywhere. 

146 


Jeanne  D'Arc  at  Rheims  147 

Only  the  mocking  evil  Other  Folk, 
Green-clad  and  swift,  might  wheel  and  cry  to  me, 
The  Dancing  People.     I  would  never  ftance, 
Not  even  in  broad  day,  lest  one  should  call, 
And  whisper  me  to  come.  ...  So  many  folk 
Not  of  this  earth,  cross  softly  at  the  dusk 
And  cry  to  one  to  answer  if  one  hears. 

"  We  of  the  Borderlands  shall  hold  you  fast 
Till  you  are  given  away  to  some  of  us, 
Come  then  to  us  who  are  the  Dancing  Folk, 
And  will  not  hurt  your  heart  with  sorrowings !  " 
She  cried  so  to  me  once  across  the  dusk, 
Swaying  and  beckoning  at  the  wood's  edge, 
The  green-clad  girl  who  swung  against  the  wind 
Like  a  leaf -screen  in  moonlight  and  black  shade: 
"  We  of  the  Borderlands  shall  hold  you  thrall 
To  your  days'  ending.     Never  think  for  you 
There  shall  be  common  carelessness  nor  peace. 
Come — all  this  troubled  world  that  wearies  you 
Because  it  is  so  great,  shall  only  be 
A  little  dancing-green  for  your  swift  feet 
Through  many  thousand  turnings  of  the  moon. 
You  shall  have  mirth  and  music  and  still  joy, 
And  where  your  heart  weighs  there  shall  be  a  hush, 
A  cool  light  silence  that  has  all  forgot 
But  dancing  and  white  moonrays ! " 

Oh,  I  screamed 

And  clutched  to  find  the  crucifix  I  wore : 
I  knew  that  what  she  willed  to  take  from  me 


148  Jeanne  D'Arc  at  Rheims 

Was  that  earth-grief  that  is  the  human  soul, 
The  soul  that  aches  so  at  the  locking  flesh, 
And  suffers  to  be  free.     "  Mary !  "  I  prayed, 
"  Mary  and  Jesus !  " 

And  the  green-clad  girl 
Cried  out  as  if  a  knife  had  struck  at  her, 
"  The  Woman  and  her  Son  of  the  gray  Sorrowings ! 
The  Sorrows  fly  above  their  heads  like  birds, 
More  sorrows  and  more  sorrows  for  your  heart 
That  is  too  heavy  now  to  care  for  joy ! " 

I  cried  more  loud  to  Mary  and  the  Saints; 

She  moaned  like  a  hurt  child,  and  filmed  like  mist, 

Gone.  .  .  .  And  I  heard  the  Voices  I  obey, 

The  ringing  voice  of  Michael  of  the  Sword, 

The  gracious  voice  of  grave  Saint  Catherine, 

That  I  have  followed.  .  .  .  Do  they  all  forget? 

A  thousand  years  up  there  is  like  a  day, 

The  priest  said  once.     And  then  a  peasant-lass 

The  more  or  less  to  such  great  Saints  as  they — 

"  Can  she  not  stay  alone,"  perhaps  they  said, 

"  One  little  hour  without  our  whisperings  ?  " 

For  all  the  harps  of  Heaven  ring  merrily, 

And  time  is  swift  when  one  has  joy  to  know ; 

The  Voices  are  all  gone.  .  .  .  First  I  was  glad 

When  the  last  echo  faded.     High  and  clear 

And  silver-certain  as  a  bugle-call 

They  sped  me,  and  I  followed — ay,  and  France, 

France  follows  too !    And  now  my  King  is  crowned. 

But  now  how  shall  I  follow — oh,  how  guide, 


Jeanne  D'Arc  at  Rheims  149 

With  only  wavering  clatter  of  these  lords 
Who  keep  me  here  to  be  a  tool  for  them  ? 


I  sought  to  bring  before  my  eyes  last  night, 

That  were  so  tired  with  glinting  gold  and  steel, 

A  picture  of  some  pleasant  year  to  come 

When  I  should  be  forgotten,  and  let  go, 

And  my  own  people  had  forgotten  too, 

And  let  me  move  among  them  as  of  old : 

("  Ay,  a  good  girl/'  they  said,  "  and  scrupulous 

To  do  her  daily  work.     Too  still,  maybe, 

And  more  a  dreamer  than  is  good  for  maids, 

But  not  too  light-heart  nor  too  pert  of  tongue." 

I  used  to  wish  my  tongue  and  heart  more  light — 

Light  hearts  bring  common  friends  and  common  ways, 

The  gossip  on  the  green,  and  marrying, 

The  hearth-fire,  and  small  children  at  the  knee.) 

I  tried  to  vision  it  as  the  night  slid : 

The  fire  on  some  known  hearth,  and  some  man's  head 

Shadowy  in  the  corner,  half-asleep, 

And  small  brown  eager  faces  listening, 

And  little  hands  shut  fast  on  mine,  intent 

While  I  told  stories  of  the  gentlefolk, 

The  rose  and  blue  and  golden  of  their  robes, 

And  how  their  tall  white  horses  galloped  past — • 

All  should  have  faded  then  to  a  child's  tale. 

I  tried  to  see  it  all  to  make  sleep  come, 
But  all  was  wavering  and  not  to  hold, 


150  Jeanne  Dy  Arc  at  Rheims 

The  eager  brown  dream-children,  questioning, 
The  spindle  whirling  as  I  told  the  tale: 
Only  the  hearth-fire,  scarlet,  sinister, 
Rose  high  against  the  eyeballs  of  my  mind, 
Lashing  around  me  in  a  tide  of  flame 
That  thickened  into  yellow  bitter  smoke, 
Sinking  all  through  the  air  and  hiding  me. 

I  wish  I  did  not  think  of  her  to-night, 

The  green-clad  girl  who  feared  my  crucifix 

And  laughed  out  echoless  to  the  light  cry 

Of  little  flutes.    Her  voice  calls  in  my  ear, 

"  How  have  your  great  white  angels  guerdoned  you 

Now  you  have  followed  them  ?  "    O  Mary,  Christ, 

I  am  remembering  too  much  to-night.  .  .  . 

"  Mother !  "  they  would  have  pleaded  in  the  glow, 
"  Mother,  another  tale !  .  .  .  "    But  I  must  sleep : 
To-morrow  I  must  ride  along  the  lines 
Lance  high  and  voice  made  brave,  to  speak  my  men 
Blithely  for  France.     I  am  so  tired  to-night, 
So  tired  of  all! 

O  Mary  and  O  Christ, 
Mary  and  Jesus  of  the  Sorrowings, 
All  Your  gray  birds  of  grief  are  on  my  heart : 
My  Voices  have  been  gone  so  long,  so  long, 
And  I  am  only  a  tired  peasant-lass 
Far  off  from  the  safe  shadows  of  the  woods, 
Far  off  from  any  silence.  .  .  .  Mary,  Christ, 
Once  you  were  peasants  too!    You  know,  you  know. 


WIND-LITANY 

IN  this  world  I  shall  not  find 
Any  comforter  like  Wind, 
Any  friend  to  so  endure, 
Any  love  so  strong,  so  sure. 
I  was  born  when  Wind  with  Star 
Linked  its  magic,  and  from  far 
Whispered  out  my  destiny.  .  .  . 
And  the  Winds  have  brothered  me. 

Strong  young  hill-winds  roistering 
Up  the  steep  with  me  and  Spring, 
Wild  wet  thrilling  ocean-gales 
Flinging  out  my  swelling  sails, 
Or  the  little  dawning-airs 
Rising  pure  as  baby -prayers — 
These  have  loved  me  since  my  birth 
On  the  wind-swept  swinging  earth. 

Rose-perfumed  night-air  that  slips 
Like  a  kiss  across  my  lips, 
Smoke-tanged  wood-breath — they  can  sweep 
All  old  childhood  from  its  sleep 
Underneath  thick- fallen  days 
Heaped  and  dun  across  my  ways ; 
For  until  the  end  shall  be, 
Scent  o'  wind  is  Memory. 
151 


152  Wind-Litany 

I  remember  when  befell 
Heartbreak  fierce,  intolerable, 
And  no  voice  or  touch  but  bound 
Deeper  torment  on  the  wound: 
Yet  a  little  wind  could  rise 
Stroking  cheek  and  tear-wet  eyes, 
Breathing,  "  Hush !    All  pain  shall  pass ! 
Still  are  winds,  and  skies,  and  grass !  " 

God,  when  all  of  earth  shall  lie 
Stripped  and  new  beneath  Thine  eye, 
And  Thy  gold  stars  fall  unstrung, 
And  Thy  curtain-sky  down-flung, 
And  Thy  seas  are  lifted  up 
Whole  from  out  their  empty  cup, 
Grant  me  still,  in  Heaven's  place 
Sweet  swift  winds  across  my  face ! 


•  THE  PASSING 

WHAT  did  you  see,  whose  glad  wide  eyes  looked  up- 
ward while  the  night  was  passing? 

Was  it  great  angels  in  the  skies  where  we  saw  gray 
clouds  massing? 

Did  you  see  jeweled  gates  unfold  and  rosy  glories 
round  you  flowing, 

Or  some  dear  saint- face  ringed  with  gold,  when  you 
were  going? 

Oh,  once  I  saw  a  cloud  gleam  rose,  where  through  a 

pane  was  dawn  delaying, 
And  once  I  saw  a  dear  face  close  grow  sad  for  my  not 

staying. 
And  far  above,  away  from  me,  where  green  the  forest 

trees  were  growing, 
A  wakened  bird  sang  piercingly,  when  I  was  going. 

What  did  you  think  of,  when  you  lay  and  smiled 

through  all  the  sobbing  round  you? 
Was  it  of  debts  that  Heaven  should  pay,  or  gifts  that 

earth  had  found  you? 
And  did  you  see  sweet  deeds  behind,  or  those  new  joys 

before  you  lying 
Or  dream  of  faces  you  should  find,  when  you  were 

dying? 

153 


154  Phe  Passing 

Oh,  once  I  thought  of  an  old  friend,  and  once  I  thought 

of  an  old  lover, 
And  once  I  wondered  of  the  end,  and  why  my  days 

were  over. 
And  your  loud  world  seemed  far  from  me,  far  off  the 

praying  and  the  crying.  .  .  . 
'And  a  gray  tide  rose  sleepily,  when  I  was  dying. 

What  did  you  know,  you  who  were  gone  before  our 

day  on  earth  was  breaking? 
Was    there    a    trumpet-ringing    dawn    greeted    your 

Heaven-awaking  ? 
Were  there  gold  paths  and  gem-set  walls,  with  priest 

and  prophet  triumph-crying 
To  greet  you  in  Heaven's  shining  halls,  after  your 

dying  ? 

Nay,  there  was  peace  and  silentness,  and  a  still  happi- 
ness enfolding, 

And  I  forgot  old  weariness,  and  old  pain  ceased  its 
holding, 

And  old  child-visions  came  to  be,  and  lost  child-hopes 
and  joys  came  Hying, 

'And  all  was  very  well  with  me,  after  my  dying! 


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